by Paul Seiple
“You ever drink?” Reid asked, running his index finger along the brim of an empty shot glass.
I took a seat on the couch opposite of him. “Used to when I was younger. Alcohol never agreed with me.”
Reid chuckled. “Yeah, she can be an unrelenting bitch. But a tempting one nonetheless.” He sat the shot glass on a TV guide placed on an end table. “I’ve been sober over twelve years now.” He picked up the bottle of whiskey. “This almost cost me everything. My career. My life.” Reid sat the bottle back on the table.
“Do you want to drink again?” I asked.
Reid chuckled again and sat back on the couch. “Every goddamn day.”
“Why torture yourself by having it in the house?”
“It’s not just in the house.” Reid picked up the bottle again, tracing the logo. “I carry it everywhere with me. I’ve had this bottle for ten years.”
“Why?”
“You ever read The Odyssey by Homer?”
“Probably in school,” I said.
“There’s a point where Odysseus chains himself to his ship’s mast so that he doesn’t succumb to the siren’s song.” Reid pointed the neck of the bottle at me. “This siren can sing one soothing song.”
“I don’t get it. Wouldn’t it be easier to avoid the siren altogether?”
“There are some things that you cannot escape from. You’ll eventually get tired of running. When something has latched onto you, it will not stop until it catches you. Might as well keep it close. It’s easier to fight if you’re not tired.”
Reid’s body started to distort. Maybe it was lack of sleep. I shook my head, trying to focus. I no longer saw Reid sitting opposite me. It was Norman as Father Abraham, sitting in his office chair taking notes. Ignoring my destiny wasn’t going to be an option any longer. Running wasn’t cutting it. Norman was the siren.
“Does that make sense?” Reid asked.
“Huh?”
He laughed and told me again the theory of limitations on a man’s willpower. Keeping the bottle around gave him just enough power to control the urge. Reid sat the bottle on the coffee table, leaned back against the couch, and let out a deep breath. “This is killing me, Michael.”
“The booze?”
Reid sat up and placed his elbows on his knees. “If I thought that would take the pain away, I’d already be dead.” He paused and reached for something on the back of the couch. He handed me a dirty apron that had the words Reidy Bug stitched in the center.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Wallace left this with the girl at the Body Farm. My mother used to call me Reidy Bug.”
I wanted to say sorry. I wanted to apologize for the sins of my father, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t let words pass.
“Every damn day, Norman Wallace taunts me. I see his face in every lunatic I get off the streets. I’m losing control, and I’m losing Barbara.”
“Barbara? She seemed so happy earlier.”
“She’s FBI, remember. She’s taught to hide anything that can be marked as a show of weakness. The truth is we barely talk. It’s my fault that it’s gotten to this point. I no longer want to put Wallace away for what he did to my mother and all those other women. I need to put him down in order to save what little life I have left.”
The lump in my throat ballooned. Sitting in front of me was a good man whose life was being ripped apart by the man that brought me into this world. Reid had given me my life back. It was my turn to return the favor. “We will get him.”
Reid picked up the bottle again, stared at the whiskey through the faint beam of a lamp. “Damn right we will. Even if it’s the death of me.”
The phone rang. We both looked at the clock. Any calls coming at three in the morning usually brought bad news. The call came from Ron Yemana, Reid’s go-to guy at the Bureau. Yemana informed Reid of the killing of two priests in Saint Louis. Normally, this wouldn’t make it to the Bureau this fast, but Yemana got wind of a message left on a wall at the church. The message said, With Each Firefly, My Light Grows Brighter. Yemana was the only person at the Bureau that new the truth about George Wallace and that he referred to his victims as fireflies. This could only mean one thing.
The bodies were starting to pile up.
Sixteen
Arlington Virginia
I watched Michelle clutch her teddy bear while she slept. The first rays of morning sun shimmied through cracks in the blinds highlighting her face. There was no way I was going to let her go through life haunted by the wrongdoings of her blood. I was going to protect her just as Reid shielded me.
A dull ache behind my eyes reminded me of what a sleepless night felt like. A pain that used to be as natural as breathing seemed worse now. Maybe after years of not sleeping, I grew accustomed to it. They say your body adapts to handle pain. Nausea settled in my stomach. Another pain I used to shake off. For the first time in nearly eight years I wanted a drink. My alcohol problem wasn’t as crippling as Reid’s, but that’s only because I broke up with it before it got too attached. Seeing the bottle of whiskey, remembering the numbness it caused, seemed to be the perfect cure for my ailments. My mouth started to water. I wanted the feeling of the burn as the poison raced through my body, destroying every fear I had. I started to heave. I covered my mouth, ran to the bathroom, and vomited. I put everything I had into every wrench, determined to rid my body of the demons wreaking havoc on me.
When I returned to the room, Michelle was sitting up, wiping sleep from her eyes.
“You OK, Daddy?”
“Yeah, Chelle. I’m fine. Aunt Barbara’s meatloaf didn’t agree with me.” I rubbed my stomach in a playful manner, trying to downplay the severity of the situation.
“It did taste weird.” Michelle giggled. “And the mashed potatoes were lumpy. I’m glad Mommy wasn’t here. She would have said something.”
I laughed. “And I’m glad you take after me when it comes to things like that, Chelle.”
Michelle grabbed Linus by the arm. “Hope breakfast is better.”
I put my arm in from of Michelle, stopping her in her tracks. “Do you like Aunt Barbara?”
“Yeah, she’s nice. And Rockford is neat. Can we get a cat?”
“I’ll think about.”
“I want to name him Charley.”
“Why Charley?”
“I don’t know. Can we eat? It smells so good.”
“In a second. Look, Chelle, Uncle Reid and I have to go out of town for a few days. I’m going to need you to stay with Aunt Barbara. Is that OK?”
“If I say yes, can I have some eggs now?’
A smile overtook my face, sending worry scurrying for a moment. “Sure.”
Michelle watched through the glass door. Rockford sat to her left as if he was her bodyguard. Linus dangled from her right hand while she waved goodbye. I waved back. My heart ached. I’d never been away from her. And there was the very real possibility that if we encountered Norman that I’d never see her again. Would this be the last image of my baby girl that I would want to remember?
Rockford stood up and brushed against her leg, flicking his tail. Michelle looked down, giggled, and rubbed the cat’s head. She was happy. Yes, if this was to be the last time I saw her, it would be the image I’d like to remember in the afterworld.
A horn brought me back to reality. Reid stuck his head out of the window of his Firebird. “We gotta go. Plane leaves in thirty.”
I waved one last time. Michelle didn’t see me. She had her back to the door playing with the cat. In a brief instance, she was gone, chasing after Rockford. I threw my backpack in the backseat.
“She’ll be fine with Barbara,” Reid said, backing out of the driveway.
“I know. It’s just that I’ve never left her alone before.”
“She’s not alone. And besides, look who her mother is. Spitfire should be Rebecca’s middle name. You know that little girl has that running through her blood.”
Reid was righ
t. I needed to focus my attention on ending Norman’s thirty-year reign of terror.
“We should be in Saint Louis by lunch time.” Reid handed me two photos from a crime scene. One picture was of a priest in a chair. The other of a priest lying on the floor with a letter opener sticking out of his head. “The priest with the headache is Tom Samuels. He just got to the church a few months ago. The older guy in the chair is Harold Frederick. He was with the church for twenty-five years. Before that he lived in Statesville.”
“North Carolina?” I asked, putting the photos on the seat.
“Yep.”
“You think he knew Norman?”
“I’m willing to bet he was the target.”
I picked the photo of the younger priest back up. “And this one?”
“Wrong place, wrong time. He died quickly. A letter opener to the head tends to do that. Norman enjoys prolonging the torture as long as possible. Samuels was a throwaway.”
In a scene straight out of a movie car chase, Reid weaved the Firebird through traffic. We weren’t late. The plane was just for us. It would wait. I wanted to ask why he was acting like a stunt driver. But I knew the answer. Reid was a man on the edge. There comes a point when you have to say, “Screw it. This has to end. And it has to end now.” Reid was at that point.
“Mack Root is going to meet us at the church,” Reid said.
“Body Farm Mack Root?”
After I left Homicide, I briefly thought about going into forensics. I studied the work of Root religiously for a few months before deciding that in order to do the job you had to desensitize death. That was something that I just couldn’t do. In my eyes, the result of numbing yourself to death was a devaluing of life.
“If anyone can help us track this bastard, it’s Mack,” Reid said, turning down a narrow road leading to a small runway.
“This is the airport?” I asked.
“It's an airport. This is what short notice buys me.”
Seventeen
Cleveland Ohio
“Neanderthal Man, here, might not give a damn, but a girl has to get a shower,” Hella said, as the Cadillac rounded the corner of Atlantic.
Sanford turned the volume up on the radio in an attempt to drown out her whining. He started singing ‘Who’s Johnny’.
“Do you realize how ridiculous you look? You’re a gigantic white man with no rhythm singing El Debarge. And you can’t sing.”
“Boss, do you smell something? I think she may be right about that shower thing.”
Hella turned to the back seat, expecting a verbal lashing from Norman. Nothing. He sat dead still with his eyes closed. “Did he croak?” she asked, looking back at Sanford.
“Nah, he does this sometimes. He calls it bicentennial meditation or something.”
“It’s Transcendental Meditation. It’s my way of detaching from things that cause me
anxiety. Right now, that’s you two,” Norman said.
Hella closed her eyes. “Let me try this.” After a few seconds she spoke again. “Nope,
didn’t work. I can still hear Sasquatch breathing.”
“Stop the car,” Norman said.
Sanford eased into a place behind a white van that had The Happy Drain Plumbing Service written in blue letters across the back doors. A man walked out of a coffee shop carrying a cup in one hand and a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. He was tall, thin, looked to be in a good shape. And surprisingly, for his age, still had a full head of black hair.
“Not another old one,” Hella said. “There’s just something damning about doing it with a man of God. These old geezers you’re picking probably can’t get it up.” Hella turned her lips down, biting the bottom lip, she turned to Norman. “No offense about that old stuff.”
“I didn’t bring you along to bed these men, dear.” Norman smiled. “I’m not randomly choosing people to be a part of history. Death has to have meaning. Serve a purpose. Advance a cause.”
“Let me guess, this guy stole your girlfriend in high school,” Hella said.
The man got into a blue Cutlass and started to pull away.
“Want me to follow him, boss?”
“No need. I know where he is going. Four blocks north, take a right on Hayes, and his house will be on your left. No need to rush this. Let’s get some rest first.”
“House? We’re not doing this one at a church?” Sanford asked.
Norman ignored Sanford’s question and turned his attention to Hella. “No, dear. He did not steal my girlfriend in high school. Reverend Barrett is not the target.” Norman gave a brief smile before the wrinkles in his face hinted at something more serious. “His wife is the next target.”
Eighteen
Saint Louis, Missouri
Stepping off of the Cessna 441, I wanted to kiss the ground. It didn’t matter that the small runway wasn’t paved. A mouthful of dirt was a small price to pay for surviving the flight. My experience with flying was limited to a honeymoon in Hawaii. Maybe that flight spoiled me. Big plane, minimal turbulence, and my beautiful new bride to keep my mind occupied. This flight felt like the ghost of my brother returning for round two. No clouds in the sky, but still the air wrapped itself around the plane, shaking, twisting, and turning it like a child’s new toy. I lost count of the times I wanted to steal the unopened bottle of Jim Beam from Reid’s bag. Clear air turbulence is a phrase that I will not take likely whenever I step onto a plane.
There was nothing clear about the ground level air. There was a thick cloud of dust stirred by landing which clung to humidity making it feel like we were being pelted with mud. When dealing with anything my father was involved in it always seemed like things couldn’t get worse. But they always found a way to prove me wrong. Average July temperature in Saint Louis was 89 degrees. It was 104 outside. If Norman were the Devil, the heat was a trail of breadcrumbs leading us to him.
“You, OK? You look a little pale,” Reid said smiling.
“Ask me in about ten minutes when my internal organs settle. That is if they don’t fry first.”
“It’s definitely a hot one today.”
The sultry, southern tone of the woman’s voice startled me. I whipped around. Her look
didn’t match her voice. She stood about five-foot-two with shoulder length brown hair that somewhat feathered on the sides. Big hair, but not as big as what was coming into style at the time. She dressed conservatively, white Keds tennis shoes, jeans that weren’t too tight, and a dark green polo shirt that clung to her curves. The color of the shirt made her pale skin shine brighter in the sun. She stuck out her hand to shake and smiled. Her face hinted at a sultriness that matched the tone of her voice.
“I’m Jill. Jill Tanner. Mack sent me to pick you up.”
“Michael Callahan,” I said, shaking her hand.
Reid stuck out his hand. “Reid…”
Jill cut him off. “I know who you are. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Hoffman.”
“Call me Reid.”
“Reid it is,” Jill said. “Can you believe our luck with this heat? It’s like we landed in Hell.”
I wiped sweat from my forehead before it had the chance to cascade down to my eyes. Jill wasn’t far from the truth. Norman never went anywhere without Hell riding shotgun.
“We can chit-chat later. Let’s get out of this sauna.” Reid grabbed his bag.
I followed suit and tossed my pack into the trunk of a rented Chevette. Reid called shotgun. I stared at the compact car trying to figure out how I was going to get in the backseat.
“You gonna fit, stretch?” Jill asked “Or do we have to chop your legs off?”
After leaving the plane, I’d hope my nightmare travel was over. I looked forward to a peaceful ride after the trip from hell. I folded myself into the backseat, praying the drive would be short. Somehow the lack of sleep caught up to me and I closed my eyes, ignoring the contortionist torture I placed on my body. Just as I started to relax, the car swerved, slamming my head into the w
indow.
“Jackass!” Jill said, slamming her palms against the steering wheel. “Did you see that? He just came into my lane without even looking.” The car jerked again, throwing me toward Reid, as Jill punched the gas. My hand shielded my nose from crashing into my knees. We pulled up next to a Corvette at a stoplight. Jill rolled down her window and yelled, “Ever heard of checking your blind spot?” The middle-aged man didn’t look at her. He couldn’t hear her over Ratt’s ‘Round and Round’ blaring from his car. The light turned green. “Ugh!” Jill smacked the steering wheel again. “Sorry, I overreact a bit if I don’t have my morning coffee. But he seriously didn’t check his blind spot.”
Reid laughed. “It’s OK. You know what they say about older men in Corvettes,” Reid paused and cocked his head. “It’s a compensation thing.”
“What kind of car do you drive?” Jill asked.
“Firebird,” Reid said.
Jill looked down between Reid’s legs. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Reid erupted with laughter. I, on the other hand, felt awkward. I’m pretty good at reading people, and I saw the way they looked at each other when they shook hands. She was obviously flirting with Reid. And this wasn’t the Reid I knew. I wondered if he had cracked the seal on the whiskey when I wasn’t looking. Before she could shoot out another innuendo I spoke up. “So, tell us what you know about the murders.”
Reid took my cue. “Mack found anything yet?”
“He doesn’t tell me much. Like why I’m even here. But an opportunity to work with Mack Root and Reid Hoffman was something I couldn’t pass up.”
