James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  "Why did you call for Ash?" Reid asked.

  Pipes pointed to the Cutlass. "Bill asked me to call him if I saw the Tall Man again. That's his car."

  "Michael's car," Barbara said.

  "He took a lady inside of Redd's. Then grabbed a man from the trunk. Man didn't look too good," Pipes said.

  Reid started to pull away.

  "Can't go in the front. It's boarded up. Alleyway to the side leads to the back."

  A loud bang caused Pipes to drop his guitar.

  "Gunshot," Barbara said.

  Reid slammed the car into park, blocking the road. He got out, revolver drawn, and ran toward Redd's. Barbara followed. Pipes started to sing "I Shot the Sheriff."

  Forty-Seven

  "Who's better looking? Me or my brother?"

  I made out George's voice through all the confusion in my head. One minute, revenge boiled my blood. The next I fought Death's arms back with every bit of might I could muster, which wasn't much. The blood loss weakened me to the state of a helpless newborn. On the bright side, my body was numb, so the pain was minimal. I managed to free the nine and stuff it into my pants before losing consciousness when Sunshine left me. It truly was a great nickname for a girl that could bring light to even the darkest rooms. Her presence made the trunk of my car feel like a warm bed. A death bed, but warm nonetheless. I don't remember what happened after she said goodbye, only being jarred out of sleep by George as he dragged me from the trunk.

  The smell of citronella reminded me of the homeless man singing. George brought us to the scene of his first crime. The death of our sister. I felt as though I could open my eyes, but out of fear of George noticing, I didn't. My sister's voice whispered to me, "It's time to end this."

  "I said, who is better looking, bitch?"

  There was a smack. The sound of flesh meeting flesh followed by a whimper. She was still alive. I tried to pinpoint George's location from his voice, but the words echoed from wall to wall.

  "Forgive me," George said. "How was I ever expecting you to answer me with your mouth taped shut." He yanked the duct tape away from Rebecca's mouth.

  "Motherfucker. If my new pedicure is chipped after your little game of 'My Gun is Bigger Than Yours,' there will be hell to pay."

  That's my girl, I thought as I lay there trying to locate my brother while playing dead. I only had one shot. It had to be perfect. My next thought, Please don't kill her.

  "Hell to pay, huh? You sound like my delusional father."

  "You mean the one that got off on killing women? That apple didn't fall far from the tree."

  "How do you know who my father is?"

  "I know everything about you. Norman Wallace, your father, killed your mother, played you like an instrument in his demented little band of butthurt."

  "Norman did not play me. I've always been this way. I'm smarter than him. Better than him. Norman is weak. He didn't have the balls to kill Michael."

  "Keep telling yourself that, Champ," Rebecca said.

  There was another smack. Rebecca was pushing him too far. My body was shutting down. If I didn't do this now, it would be too late.

  "You're making this really hard, bitch. Michael needs to watch you die. I'd hoped that he would wake up on his own, but it looks like he's going to need a little push."

  The shuffling of feet. George was coming for me. When I felt him, I'd shoot. My body needed to cooperate. The element of surprise would last only a few seconds, but long enough to grab the gun and take a shot.

  "Wait," Rebecca said. "Don't you want to know who else knows who you really are?"

  The shuffling stopped.

  "That's right, Mr. Antichrist, you're not a ghost any longer."

  "What are you talking about, bitch?"

  "Reid Hoffman. Ever heard of him? The guy that helped catch Gacy. He's in town, looking to take you to the prom, Mr. Popularity."

  "What does Hoffman want with me?"

  "Really? The guy catches serial killers. Weren't you just bragging about being one?"

  "But he wants Norman, not me. I didn't kill his mother and bury her at the cabin in Statesville."

  "Look at that. The big, bad serial killer is turning into a whiny crybaby, now that the FBI is after him. Who's the bitch now?"

  "I don't have time for this," George said.

  Sunshine's voice whispered in my ear, "Now." On pure adrenaline, I pulled the nine from my waistband and sat up. It felt as though my body was tearing in half. I shook my head to clear my vision. George had his back to me lunging at Rebecca with a knife above his head. I fired. George's body jerked. The knife flew from his hand and slammed against the concrete wall. My brother fell to his knees, his upper body landed on Rebecca. She rocked the chair from side to side. George slid off onto the floor, leaving a smear of blood down her legs.

  "Fucking gross," Rebecca said.

  "You OK," I said, before suffering a coughing spell that felt like invisible hands separating my intestines from my body.

  "Well, I'm covered in the blood of a psycho. Other than that I'm peachy. You?"

  "I've seen better days."

  "You can thank your shitty brother for ruining your sex life."

  I eased back to the concrete floor. "Huh?"

  "There is no way in hell I'll ever let you tie me up now," Rebecca said, laughing.

  "How'd you learn to be so tough?" I asked.

  "Five brothers."

  I started to lose consciousness again. There was no white light. My sister wasn't there, welcoming me to the other side. There was nothing. Just darkness.

  "Don't you dare die on me," Rebecca said. "You have a lot of making up to do. You really suck at planning second dates."

  Forty-Eight

  Reid weaved through the street and down the alleyway, treating each empty bottle with caution as if they were landmines. In a way they were. For the most part he threw protocol out the window when lives were in danger, but twisting an ankle on a Thunderbird bottle, or the sound of shattering glass wouldn't help the cause.

  "You're going to get yourself killed, Reid," Barbara said, hobbling a good ten steps behind. The pain in her leg was intensifying to the point that adrenaline no longer acted as novocaine. Her shin was a twig, holding on for dear life in a windstorm.

  Reid stopped running and pressed his back against a wall. A strong lemon scent cut through the wafting odor of despair that filled the alleyway. A splintered piece of ply board lay on the ground below a rusted sign that once said DELIVERIES. The only letters not eaten away by rust were LIVE. A premonition of a happy outcome? Reid hoped. On top of the ply board was a crowbar. Reid noticed Barbara's unavoidable limp.

  "Hang back," Reid said. "Back me up. You're no good if you can't walk."

  "Not a chance in hell," Barbara said. "I'm seeing this one through."

  Barbara Dupree decided that she was one of the good guys at age thirteen. The summer that changed her life. Her father owned a record shop called Spin It. On an August evening just before closing two junkies robbed Spin It and shot Barbara's father. He died three days later. The junkies ended up being high school kids hooked on LSD. Barbara stared at their pictures plastered across the front of the paper the day after their arrest. Only four years older than her, but the evil that lived in them was wise beyond their years. It was that evil that Barbara vowed to fight in her father's honor for as long as she breathed. A broken leg wouldn't change that.

  "Just as stubborn as the day I met you," Reid said.

  "Do you think this is the appropriate time to flatter me?"

  The relationship was well-hidden for many reasons. The only person at the Bureau that knew Reid and Barbara were a couple was Director Allen. And he only knew because they chose to tell him. The summer of 1980 marked the seven-year anniversary of their first date. In those seven years, this was the first time that Reid and Barbara were in the field together. Barbara usually stayed at Quantico while Reid tracked the psychos. On paper, this wasn't an official FBI case. N
ot yet, anyway. Barbara knew how much Reid needed closure. Needed to avenge his mother. She felt the same way. Her closure came when the two punks that murdered her father were put away for life. She wanted death. But in a way, life behind bars was the most excruciating death sentence. Barbara wanted to help Reid find his closure.

  Reid pointed to the rusted DELIVERIES sign. "He's got them in there. I'm going to…" Voices interrupted Reid's directions. "Did I hear that wrong? Or was that a female laughing?"

  "Definitely female. Sounded like Rebecca to me," Barbara said.

  Reid eased down the wall, keeping his back pressed against the cinder blocks, and stepped over the corner of the ply board. Through a crack in two pieces of rotting wood covering a window, shadows bounced off the walls. Glow from candles' flames lit the scene just enough to give Reid a snapshot. Rebecca was sitting in the middle of the room. On the floor next to her feet was another shadow — the outline of a man.

  "I see Rebecca and Michael, but not George," Reid said, turning back to Barbara.

  Barbara braced against the wall, keeping weight off her left leg. She didn't verbally respond, but the expression of hurt on her face spoke loud enough. She couldn't go any further. No matter how bad she wanted to kick evil's ass again. She just couldn't. The pain was too much.

  "Go back to the man in the wheelchair. Get him to call an ambulance and backup," Reid said.

  "But…"

  "After this is over I plan on walking on the beach in Fiji with you. Not carrying you. Please," Reid said.

  "Be careful," Barbara said, turning away, using the wall for support.

  Reid stood next to the window until Barbara was out of sight. He extended his leg, placed his foot over the crowbar and slid it toward him. Once it was within reach, he picked up the tool, closed his eyes and traveled back to the war. The words of General Ian Wright guided him. "Never walk into a hornets' nest. Draw those motherfuckers out. Bring the enemy to you." Reid took a deep breath and tossed the crowbar against a dumpster. The clang, amplified by the tight confines, sent waves of ringing through Reid's ears. He barely heard the voice even though she screamed.

  "In here. Help," Rebecca said.

  "Rebecca," Reid said, tilting his head to the side in hopes of silencing the ringing.

  "Reid? He's dead. It's safe."

  Reid only heard the words dead and safe. He drew his revolver and stepped through the doorway. The body was to his right. He placed the crumbled mess in his sights.

  "That's Michael," Rebecca said. "George is over here. He's dead."

  Reid eased the white-knuckle grip on his pistol, bent down, and placed two fingers on Michael's neck.

  "Is he alive?"

  "There's a pulse. It's faint, but it's there," Reid said, standing up. "Are you hurt?"

  "I'll live. Just get me out of this chair."

  Reid freed Rebecca's hands. Just as he was about to undo an ankle restraint, a cough came from behind followed by shallow laughter. Reid jumped to his feet and drew his gun on George who lay on his back, his eyes fluttered, blood sputtered from his mouth, specks of red freckled his cheeks with every laugh.

  "Michael didn't win," George said. "I told you, sis. Michael wouldn't win."

  "Michael's alive, you piece of shit," Rebecca said. "You didn't kill him."

  "It doesn't matter. His life is ruined. His father is a serial killer who murdered his mother. His identical twin is a serial killer. It's a stigma, Michael can never escape."

  Reid walked over to George, stood over him, and aimed the gun at his head.

  "You can't shoot me, FBI. I'm not armed." George tried to laugh, but could only cough. A spittle of blood stained Richard's khakis. "I feel like I know you. Papa spoke highly of your mother. Said she looked like a prude, but boy, was she a good fuck."

  Reid cocked the hammer. "I'm going to tell you a story. A story where the good guy wins and the bad guy dies."

  "There's witnesses," George said. "To protect and serve, remember that? You can't shoot an unarmed man."

  Reid laughed. "To protect and serve is the motto of LAPD. I'm not LAPD. But I am going to protect. You're not ruining Michael's life." Reid fired three shots into George's face making him impossible to recognize.

  Forty-Nine

  "I thought the knife to the gut was the end, but another week of hospital food is going to be the death of me," I said.

  Reid smiled and placed a brown bag onto the metal tray in front of me. "Couple of burgers surely won't kill you after what you've been through."

  Rebecca was on the television doing the evening news for the last time. She had the exclusive story of what happened with my brother and she planned on telling it in the form of a national bestseller.

  "So, that's it for her, huh?" Reid asked.

  "Yep. She's going to be a writer."

  "I'd say she's got one hell of a story to tell," Reid said.

  "Why did you do it?" I asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Shoot him in the face."

  "You don't deserve to spend your life in the shadow of your family's transgressions. I couldn't save my mother, but I could save you. Just be sure that little spitfire of yours doesn't refer to him as your brother in the book. I pulled a lot of strings to make sure he can never be traced back to you."

  I smiled. "George Staley. The man looks nothing like me." I pointed to the television. There was an image of a man with the caption Murmur underneath. "Who is that?"

  "No one," Reid said. "Like I said, he'll never be traced back to you. The man on television never existed."

  "Did you go to Bill's funeral?"

  "I did. The man was loved. Seemed like a great cop. And that homeless guy in the wheelchair even showed up and tried to sing, 'My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.' Why he chose that I'll never know. Bill Ash looked to be the furthest thing from a cowboy."

  I laughed. The pain in my gut reminded me that I wasn't quite ready to run a marathon yet.

  "Captain Raines had him silenced. She seems a bit of a spitfire herself," Reid said.

  "Speaking of spitfires, how is Barbara?"

  Reid took a burger from the bag. "She's tough. A couple of bruises, a hairline fracture, but she'll be fine. I think she's more upset about scuffing her heels."

  "How long have ya'll been together?"

  Reid dropped the burger onto the tray. "What?"

  "A couple? How long?"

  Reid smiled. "Seven years. Have you ever given thought to joining the Bureau? Maybe a profiler?"

  I laughed. "Wasn't hard to tell. The way you look at her gave it away."

  "Great," Reid said, picking the burger up again. "So much for my poker face."

  "I know where your mother is buried," I said.

  Reid stopped eating mid-bite.

  "While he had Rebecca tied up, George said your mother is buried at a cabin in Statesville."

  "Can you find it?"

  "I think so."

  Chapter 50

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  "That's the tree," I said.

  After several exhaustive hypnotherapy sessions with Barbara, I finally saw the secret Norman hid. It was buried deep, much deeper than my memory of catching my father at the docks. Buried so deep that Norman had every intention of taking it to his grave with him. Playing the role of grave robber sickened me as I unearthed the decay caused by my father.

  The cabin in Statesville was his getaway. Norman's place to escape the responsibility of being a husband and a father and to spend quality time with the monster that lived within. No need to lie to mother. No need to come up with excuses as to why he wasn't home for dinner. No need to hide the imaginary horns that he was convinced set atop his receding hairline.

  To find the cabin, I had to go to a place that banished me for being an unruly guest — my brother's mind. After George's death the dreams stopped leaving questions unanswered. Reid saved my future when he unloaded those bullets into George's face. A future that erased the years of insomnia and now invo
lved the girl of my dreams, but Reid still suffered. He needed closure, and I owed him that. I wanted to pay Reid back by helping him reunite with his mother. I wanted to give Reid the opportunity to give his mother a proper burial.

  As children, Norman never took us to his sacred place. But as an adult, during his grooming phase, Norman took George to the cabin. He recounted the atrocities like a proud parent reliving his son's game-winning home run. He reveled in every sadistic moment. And with each memory, Norman hated me more. He never spoke of the hatred to George. For his plan to work, he needed to make George hate me. And what better way to make someone hate you than to make them envy you. It pained Norman to paint a perfect picture of me when all that he wanted to do was watch me suffer for ruining his double life. Hunger for the kill never goes away for serial killers. The pangs ate away at Norman every time he saw a woman that fit the pattern. His mouth watered, begging for a taste of precious blood, but he suppressed the feelings. There was no other choice. He hadn't taken a life since I pulled the curtain on his secret. He loved murder, but he loved freedom more. Killing again could put his freedom in jeopardy. So he chose to become a modern day Dr. Frankenstein. George was his monster.

  The first memory I recovered was Norman convincing George that the women buried in Statesville deserved their death sentence. Norman was a master manipulator. He made George feel hatred for the women by divulging their sin — adultery. A sin that none of them committed. Norman made George feel the betrayal of the husbands. The heartbreak of the children when they learned mother was a whore. Reinforcing the crimes to George made it easier to justify the sentence. Norman never realized that it wasn't necessary. Rage for me blinded Norman to the bigger picture — the thirst for murder inside George was already nearing a level of dehydration. As Norman recounted the murders, George's fixation with what the women looked like from the inside grew. He didn't need to be convinced that the murder of innocents was his prophecy.