by Paul Seiple
“Call it lust,” Barbara said.
Norman chuckled. “Michael saw the monster that day. In a way it felt liberating, but I knew the life I had envisioned was over. It was his fault.”
“You hoped to be Jekyll and Hyde?”
“Jekyll grew ashamed of Hyde. Jekyll killed himself.” Norman walked up the small incline from the edge of the stream. He scraped his knee on a mound of dirt, staining the Armani pants. “I’ve never had thoughts of killing myself. It would be a shame to rob Death of its one duty.” He leaned in and whispered in Barbara’s ear, “And I’ve never been ashamed of anything I’ve done.”
“How can you call yourself a monster and yet claim these murders are ridding the world of filth?”
“Are we back to playing doctor and patient, Barbara? I’ll bite. ‘The will is a beast of burden. If God mounts it, it wishes and goes as God wills; if Satan mounts it, it wishes and goes as Satan wills; nor can it chose its rider…the rider contends for its possession.’”
“More de Sade?”
“No, Martin Luther. I’m disappointed that a woman of stature didn’t know that. But, to answer your question, we are all monsters. We can’t choose our riders. Back then, Purification fueled me. Now, not so much.”
“What fuels you now?”
Norman didn’t answer. He paced a few steps and stared into the woods, thinking about dragging the women to the spot where they would face death. “Lust fuels me…with a side of revenge. I don’t have long. Death is my rider now and before I let it ride me off into the sunset, I will win this cat-and-mouse game I’ve been playing with your husband.” Norman grabbed Barbara and started toward the Oak tree with the Romans quote etching. “This little game is over. I’m insulted you would think I was stupid enough to fall for this ‘I have the hunger’ spiel.”
Barbara jerked her arm. Norman’s grip remained tight.
“Relax. In your office, I told you I swore off killing anyone until it had meaning. You don’t have meaning. The only reason you’re here is because Reid will come for you.”
Barbara didn’t notice the backpack placed behind the Oak the first time they passed it. Norman bent down and picked it up without letting go of Barbara. He unzipped the bag and fished a chain out.
“Sit down,” Norman said.
Barbara didn’t move.
“Or stand, I don’t care.” Norman pushed Barbara, slamming her back against the tree. “It will be much easier if you sit. I don’t think you want to stand for a long period. Reid may be a superhero, but he can’t snap his fingers and be here.”
Barbara sunk to the ground. Norman’s demand had nothing to do with it. The jarring of hitting the tree weakened her legs. Norman wrapped the chain around her chest twice before securing it around the back of the tree with a combination lock. He took more plastic ties from the bag and tied her ankles together. She tried to resist, but the growing pain in her neck made spasms travel down her spine.
“Don’t worry; your superhero will rescue you. And when he does, I’ll be waiting. How’s that for a happy ending? You may want to close your eyes though unless the ‘hunger’ drives you to watch your husband die.”
Barbara battled flashes of nausea as the pain radiated to the back of her head. A steady pounding against her eyes made them feel like they were about to pop free from their sockets.
“And if he doesn’t come to get you…well…you don’t really have to worry with bears. I’ve never seen one here. So, that’s a good thing. There isn’t much of a coyote population either. If you last long enough, the colder temperatures will get you, but dehydration will end you long before that.” Norman took a bottle of water from the bag. “Drink up. This will bide you a little extra time.”
Norman turned the bottle toward Barbara. Water splashed on her face shaking her from the grasp of unconsciousness. She opened her mouth, catching a good amount of liquid.
“That’s it. You’ll thank me later,” Norman said.
Barbara spit the water at Norman, soaking his shirt.
He quoted de Sade again. “The only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment.”
“Oh, I’m tormented. You’re the worst first date I’ve ever had,” Barbara said.
Norman smiled. “Consider yourself lucky, most of them are to die for.”
33
Jill Tanner
Arlington, Virginia
“I understand this is difficult Miss Bradford, but if you could relax a little, it would help,” Jill said. What she really meant was, If you don’t stop pacing, I’m going to tackle you.
“Have you ever been held at gunpoint, Agent Tanner? And please call me Rachel.”
“I’ve been in my share of scary situations. Keeping your calm is the best thing you can do.”
Rachel stopped pacing and collapsed onto the couch. “She sat right here. He held a gun to her head.”
“What else can you tell me, Miss Bradford?”
“He had dead eyes,” Rachel said. “He said he wasn’t going to hurt us, but his eyes told a different story. Behind them I could see he held no value of life and his words held no truth.”
Smart girl, Jill thought. She held up a picture of Norman Wallace. “Is this the man who took Mrs. Hoffman?”
“The eyes. Look at the eyes.”
Jill focused on Wallace’s eyes. Many pictures of Wallace passed through her hands in researching his true identity, but she never paid attention to the eyes. Rachel was right. There was something about them. Something dark, void of life.
“You see it, don’t you?” Rachel asked. “I should have noticed it when he walked in. In two months, I’ll have my PhD in psychology. Barbara was going to bring me on as a partner. I’m going to be a crappy psychologist.”
“Did he give any indication to where he was taking Mrs. Hoffman?”
“He gave me a number to call. I think one of those guys has the note.” Rachel pointed to two detectives standing in the entranceway of the office. “He told me to wait an hour and call the number. When someone answered I was to tell them Norman Wallace took Barbara and was waiting at home. He said if I called anyone else Barbara would die. I called the cops anyway. The eyes told me he would kill her whether I followed his rules or not.”
Jill walked behind Barbara’s desk. “Is that all he said?”
“Other than trying to reassure us he didn’t want to hurt us, that was it. Do you think he killed Barbara?”
Jill didn’t hear the question. She gazed out the window at the blue sky. The only reason she wanted to become a cop was to honor her father who died in a gang hit when she was a young girl. There were suppressed feelings trying to surface in the wake of Barbara’s kidnapping. Since joining the Bureau, Jill witnessed death in the most gruesome forms, but she could distance herself from it. This was different. This was someone she knew. Barbara was like family. This was her father all over again. A tear trickled down her cheek. She swatted at it. Keep it professional, she told herself.
“Are you crying, Agent Tanner?”
Jill cleared her throat and angled herself so that Rachel couldn’t see her face.
“It’s OK to cry. It means you’re human. You don’t have dead eyes,” Rachel said.
Jill turned to Rachel. “Barbara is a friend of mine. She’s like family.”
“She’s a wonderful woman,” Rachel said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “Crying doesn’t mean you’re weak, Agent Tanner. And it doesn’t make you look any less of a bad ass.”
Jill sat down in Barbara’s chair. She shed another tear. This time she didn’t bother to wipe it away. “My father was murdered when I was a little girl. There are things about it I’ve tried to keep locked away. I guess this with Barbara hits too close to home.”
“Do you have trouble getting close to anyone?”
The question made Jill think. Other than James, Mack, Reid and Barbara, she wasn’t close to anyone. She let them in because Jill felt they were strong, almost immortal. She never thought about l
osing them. “I don’t think this is an appropriate time to pick my brain.” Jill wiped the tears from her face.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry. I’ve seen people miss out on happiness due to many things, fear being one of them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I don’t have to pay for this session, do I?” Jill smiled. It came across as forced, letting Rachel know Jill was slamming the door on her personal feelings. A defense mechanism Rachel figured Jill used often.
Rachel shifted the conversation back to the present. “Do you think Wallace will kill Barbara?”
“Barbara isn’t Wallace’s target. He’s evil, but he has a plan, and he sticks to it. Taking Barbara was meant to hurt Reid. He wants Reid.”
“And if he can’t get Reid?”
“The smartest people I know are looking for Barbara. I’d bet my money on them over Wallace.” Jill believed her statement, but there was still doubt. She hoped Rachel heard sincerity in the words. It was her job to ease Rachel’s mind, but Wallace was the smartest criminal she ever encountered. The truth was she couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t murder Barbara. It would be the death blow for Reid. Deep down, Jill put faith in believing Wallace wanted to be the one to deliver the blow directly to Reid. Killing Barbara would make Reid too weak. Jill relied on the hope Wallace was the type of man to face his enemy at full strength and not in a broken state. But history told her Wallace was a coward. And cowards don’t play fair.
“I want to believe that, but his eyes,” Rachel said.
A metal clipboard on Barbara’s desk lured Jill away from the conversation.
“What’s this?”
“That’s the paperwork Wallace filled out before seeing Barbara.”
Most of the questions held no meaning to Jill, but two stuck out. To the home address question, Wallace answered a location in Statesville, North Carolina. For his emergency contact, he wrote Reedy Bug. Jill knew the strange answer was a nickname that Reid’s mother used to call Reid before her death at Wallace’s cabin — in Statesville, North Carolina.
“James was right,” Jill said, reaching for her phone.
“What?”
“Home isn’t Barbara’s house. It’s Wallace’s old cabin in Statesville.”
34
James Beamer
Arlington, Virginia
Seeing Alvarez’s blue sedan in Reid’s driveway brought relief along with a tinge of horror. I wasn’t sure what I would find once inside the house. Reid was a man who could harness his emotions. His hatred for Wallace was unmatched, even by me. But for years, he held it in, never giving away the secret that The Morning Star Killer was still alive. That changed when Wallace’s lackey, Richard Lick put Barbara in the hospital while kidnapping Michelle. Getting word that Barbara was missing and knowing there was only one person who could have taken her didn’t leave me with much faith that Reid would keep it together.
I pulled behind the sedan. The driver’s door was open; I shut it as I walked by. I felt the hood. Cold. I wasn’t that far behind him. Reid must have broken every speed limit on the six-hour drive. My phone rang. I thought about silencing it. If Wallace was in the house, I wanted to surprise him. But I couldn’t ignore the call. Maybe Mack found Barbara.
“Beamer.”
“James, Wallace took her to the cabin. He put clues on a new patient questionnaire. I’m betting she’s alive. He wants us to find her,” Jill said.
“It could be a trap. Call Mack. Warn him. I’m at Reid’s. Gotta go.”
I felt the tension in my shoulders lesson even though the front door to the house stood open. Wallace wasn’t in Arlington, but he always had an accomplice. I couldn’t let my guard down. Rockford the cat eyed me through the screen door. If there was any semblance of a positive about the situation, seeing Rockford was a good sign. I unsnapped my holster and rested my palm on my .38. Easing the door open, I nudged Rockford back with my shin. The cat lowered his head and nudged back before weaving in and out of my legs. It had been a while since anyone paid attention to him. Rockford rarely moved from the back of Reid’s recliner unless he wanted food or head scratches. I bent down, but kept my back straight, and rubbed his head. After a few scratches, Rockford returned to the chair.
There was nothing out of place. The home looked as immaculate as always; Barbara was a stickler for tidiness. I fought the urge to call out to Reid and walked toward the door leading to the basement. The door was cracked open. I tightened my grip on my .38. A faint light projected against the hallway wall. I eased down the stairs, treating each step like it was covered in ice. Before reaching the last step I saw a couch flipped over. One of its corners partially blocked my way. The television lay, screen first on the seventies-style carpet. Magazines littered the floor as if someone raked their hand over the coffee table, flinging them in all directions. The door to Reid’s secret “Wallace” room was open. Forcibly it seemed by the splintered wood around the upper hinges. Something resembling the sole of shoe imprinted on the wood just next to the door knob. I placed my back against the wall and peeked into the room. The orange shag carpet was hidden beneath papers and photos. I gave the door a light tap to get a better view. The creaking sound of the movement would be a dead giveaway if someone was waiting in the room. I planted my back against the wall again and braced for the worst before entering.
There was no ambush. There was no movement at all. I released the breath I had clenched since noticing the ransacking and pushed the door open. Reid lay motionless on the couch amongst all the wreckage of the once organized room. I called out to him, but there was no response. Beside Reid on end table was an empty bottle of Jim Beam. On the floor beneath his hand that dangled from the couch was a shot glass. I felt Reid’s neck for a pulse. He was breathing, just passed out drunk. Many years of sobriety drowned in a fifth of whiskey.
“Reid, get up? I know about Barbara. We found her. Mack is on his way to bring her home.”
Reid didn’t flinch.
I shook him harder. “Get up.”
I caught a glimpse of a piece paper buried between Reid’s side and the back of the couch. It was a note with the words The End Times Are Here and Fourteenth Street Bar, along with an address and time, written on it. I flipped the paper over.
You’re too late. You couldn’t save her. You failed again. You couldn’t save your mother. You couldn’t save Barbara. She’s dead. Come to me, take out your rage on me.
She’s dead. Those words hit me with rapid-fire memories of every evil deed committed by my father. My father. I swore that once Michael Callahan died, I would never refer to Wallace as that again. But I couldn’t escape my past. I couldn’t erase my bloodline. This man was my father. I could refuse to acknowledge it, but the truth remained. Norman Wallace’s blood ran through me — the same blood of the man who murdered my best friend’s mother and now possibly his wife. Sickness consumed me. I fought the urge to vomit and looked at Reid, passed out on the couch. He never asked any of this. He was a good man. A man deserving of a happy life and not the shitty one dealt to him by my father. I finished reading.
She’s food for the fish in the Potomac.
I wanted to cut myself. Watch Norman Wallace’s blood leave my body. It felt like a parasite growing inside of me. But, killing the host wouldn’t kill the parasite. I flipped the paper back over. Fourteenth Street Bar. 6pm. My watch read 5:45. Fifteen minutes was the only thing between me and an end to this nightmare. Reid looked at peace, but I knew it was lie brought on by alcohol. If Barbara didn’t make it, Reid would never find peace, even after Wallace as gone. Faith was something I lost more of each day, but what little I had left I put in Mack finding Barbara alive.
The Fourteenth Street Bar was a hole in the wall. It was easy to miss unless you were a regular. The bar sat on the corner of an alleyway flooded with prostitutes. Part of me thought this was well below Wallace’s standards. But the seediness fit the side of him he fought to keep hidden. I sat in the Cutlass, listening to the engine idle and
went over all the scenarios of how this would play out. When Wallace left the note for Reid he knew there was no way both of them were getting out of this alive. He always had a plan. Last time he encountered Reid, he had an old church rigged to leak carbon monoxide. Who knows what he had planned for the grand finale. In the note Wallace asked Reid to take his rage out on him. The words made it seem like Wallace planned to suicide by ex-FBI agent. It was just another game. Wallace had every intention of being the one to leave alive. He wanted to savor the death of his nemesis. There was no other acceptable outcome.
The bar could be full of his disciples. The thought didn’t strike enough fear in me to run. There was a point when a hint of doubt would cause me to turn a blind eye. I tried to shroud myself in lies hoping no one would learn the truth. The bar could be a trap. It no longer mattered. The truth chased me and would never stop trying to catch me. It was time to face it even if it meant my end.
I shunned the advances of several prostitutes and walked into the bar. The smell of spilled beer meant this dive probably lived up to its image. Cigar smoke strong enough to neutralize the smell of beer nearly choked me. “Your Cheating Heart” by Hank Williams played on a Wurlitzer jukebox. Popping and static sounds from the old record nearly drowned Hank out.
The bar was empty, except for one man sitting at a table with his back to the door. I didn’t need to see his face. The profile was enough. It was Wallace.
“I took the liberty of getting you a drink before the bartender went on break. You’re a whiskey drinker aren’t you?”
The voice reached into my mind and ripped out deeply hidden memories. My heart fluttered. I should have recognized it when Wallace assumed the role of Father Abraham. Maybe it was my mind’s way of protecting me. But now, I knew the voice. There was no mistaking it. What the hell are you doing here? Your whore of a mother should be watching you. Those were the last words I remember my father speaking to me.
