by Paul Seiple
The preacher cleared his throat in a symbolic way as to tell the last stragglers to take a seat. I looked over at Reid’s coffin — a gunmetal gray shell, the final resting place for a man who never truly rested. Even now, there was a good chance Reid was cursing at me for the way I handled things.
Deep down, Reid understood the ending to the story was death. Like I said, Reid and Wallace were similar in certain ways. If Reid had killed Wallace, memories would still haunt him. He would continue to beat himself up over not being able to save the victims. Reid was an addict. Wallace was an addiction. He consumed too much of Reid’s life. Wallace was nothing more than a parasite intent on eating its host. John Hiatt may have called himself The Plague Vendor, but Wallace was the true infection.
I glanced at Barbara and saw a hint of peace behind the tears. She knew this was how it would end, too. Barbara spent every day worrying about Reid. He lived on borrowed time. She dreaded the minutes, the hours, the days, knowing at some point tragic news would come. The dread was over. She helped him as long as she could, but at some point help isn’t enough to keep someone who keeps playing in traffic safe.
Mack was the last person to sit. He took a seat beside an Oak tree. The old tree saw its share of sadness and celebrations of life. Maybe Reid was just another soul waiting for what comes next. Maybe there was more to it. The Oak could have been a tree of life showing the relationships between the living and the dead. Maybe it was just a tree strategically placed in the center of a cemetery for aesthetics. Or maybe it was all of those things, and its meaning was left up to the person looking at it. That moment I saw faith in the Oak. Faith in the weathered bark, in the imperfections caused by its surroundings, and in its ability to remain beautiful through tragedy. But more importantly, the Oak showed me hope. Hope in a world that allowed everything I ever loved to be taken from me. Wallace was wrong. The world wasn’t evil, people were. The best way for good people to fight the evil is through faith. It doesn’t matter what you believe in, just believe in something, and that will give you hope that things get better.
With everyone seated, the preacher quoted John 11:25. He spoke for a few moments on living even after death. Death was another thing people interpreted differently. A few people cried, more smiled and laughed. Those were the ones closest to Reid. Mourning was natural, but if Reid saw someone crying over his death, he would tell them to stop being so sensitive and have a Pepsi.
The preacher switched gears and quoted James 1:20. He added to it by saying there shouldn’t be any anger towards Reid for his actions.
Jill nudged me with her shoulder. “He would be so pissed at you for not shooting Wallace. You know if he were here he would string you up by your b…”
I placed my finger against her lips. “Have some respect. This is a funeral.”
“You’re right. This is for Reid. He wouldn’t say balls. He would say nuts.”
I shook my head and thought, She’s right. He would say nuts.
“Coke’s better,” Jill said, taking a sip from the can of Pepsi.
“Reid liked Pepsi. Today, Pepsi is better. Got it?” I sipped from a can.
“Coke is better. Reid had crappy tastes in beverages,” Barbara said. Her tone hinted that she was talking about something other than soda. “It’s OK. I’m OK. Coke is better.”
After the funeral we met at Canals of Venice, a small Italian restaurant overlooking the Potomac River.
“This is where we had our first date,” Barbara said. “Right over there…” she pointed to an outside deck. “…is where we danced for the first time. Reid was a horrible dancer. I had to take the lead. But, he let me without hesitation.”
“Two left feet?” Jill asked.
“Reid had the rhythm of a drunken monkey,” Barbara said.
I cringed and squeezed the aluminum can.
Barbara placed her hand on mine. “I said I’m OK. I will not stop being the person I was because this happened. I will not ban the word drunk from my vocabulary because Reid was an alcoholic. I told him that night he danced like a drunken monkey and every time after that when we danced.” She looked at the unopened Pepsi in front of an empty chair. “Where’s Mack?”
“He’s making a habit of being late,” I said.
“Talking about me behind my back, huh?” Mack tapped me on my shoulder and took a seat. “I’ve been researching a fingerprint hit I took from one of those traps in the woods.”
“Let’s talk about it later,” I said.
“Talk about it now,” Barbara said. “You want to honor Reid; this is how he would want it.”
I nodded.
“I was right. Wallace wasn’t working alone. The print came back to a Roger Cagney. He was in Vietnam from ’70 to ’73. But here’s the kicker, he died in a car wreck ten years ago.”
“Sounds like Wallace got to him about ten years ago,” I said.
“I’m betting he’s the sniper too. I found an article on Cagney. He was a decent shot in the war. Not Chuck Mawhinney good, but good enough to take out those cops on Halloween. I can’t find anything else on him,” Mack said.
“Now that Wallace is out of the picture, he’s probably long gone,” I said.
“I will not stop looking.” Mack wrapped a piece of chewed gum in a napkin and opened the can of Pepsi. “That’s not the best news. Hiatt’s autopsy showed massive amounts of the synthetic in his system. I’m thinking it was a way of disposing of the agent. At Hiatt’s apartment there was a ton of evidence linking Dr. Harry Monahan to Hiatt. I know Monahan well. I’m fairly certain he created the agent. Monahan is brilliant. He got rich off an antimalarial in the eighties. A couple years later a biking accident in Sweden left him paralyzed. He quit practicing medicine and moved to Wyoming.”
“And now you’re going to tell me you have a jet fueled up waiting for us to go grab him?” I asked.
“Well, this is the not-so-great news, looks like he left the country right after Halloween. Flight records have his private jet landing in Morocco.”
“No extradition,” I said.
“You guys really aren’t that great at catching bad guys. Good thing I was there to nab Wallace.” Jill smiled. She took another sip of soda. “Coke’s definitely better.”
38
James Beamer
New York City
Six Months Later
“Green rooms really make you nervous, huh?” Jill asked.
The room was small, but the feeling of the walls closing in on me gave new meaning to claustrophobia.
“What gave it away,” I said.
“Well, you’re etching grooves into that chair like a pro.”
“It’s not so much the room. It's the reason I’m here. This is your first talk show. You’ll learn. Rob Randle wants all the gory details. Things the public doesn’t need to hear. Who knows? The next Ted Bundy could be out there listening for pointers.”
“Gory details equal ratings. Maybe I should tell them about the time we had those bad enchiladas from that food truck.” Jill took a sip of coffee. “Damn, I didn’t think I’d ever taste coffee worse than Mack’s.”
I laughed. “Those enchiladas created quite the crime scene.”
“Remember when Mack couldn’t make it to the bathro…”
A young guy with headphones stuck his head in the room. “Twenty minutes till we’re live.”
“In ten years, I’ll still hate green rooms,” I said.
“In ten years, you’ll be too old to catch killers,” Jill said with a smirk.
“It’s all I know. What else is there to do?”
“Well, you could meet a nice woman and see how that works out. When’s the last time you went on a date?”
“Keep it professional, Tanner.”
“Seriously, James, Rachel has a friend who would be perfect for you.”
“Did anyone ever tell you dating someone you met on a case is unprofessional?”
“Really, James? Really? You married someone you met on a case.”<
br />
“We are talking about you. This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, it’s always about you, James Beamer.” Jill smiled. “So, you ever talk to Rebecca?”
“She hasn’t called in about six months. I don’t think she ever got over the anger stage after Michelle ran away.”
Jill sipped the coffee. “Nothing new on Michelle?”
“Mack hasn’t been able to find Jessie. I always knew if Jessie wanted to go off the grid, it would be almost impossible to find him. His last number redirects to a Chinese restaurant now.”
Jill’s phone chirped. “Oh, a text.”
“What?”
“This new phone gets text messages. The guy at Radio Shack told me this was the next big thing.”
“How annoying. Ringing is bad enough.”
Jill laughed. “Barbara says she loves Hawaii.”
“Reid always promised her an island. I guess she finally got it.”
“Hawaii will be good for her. She deserves paradise. Speaking of paradise, has Mack left for Morocco yet?”
“Tomorrow I think, and we all could use a little paradise now that Wallace is dead.”
“You OK with that?”
“He was never my father. I grieved my father’s death a long time ago. Wallace was just another criminal to me.”
“Stomach cancer though. In jail. His last days had to be hell.”
“He got off easy.”
Headphone guy stuck his head in the room again. “Live in ten. Be ready to go on in fifteen.”
“You know they will bring up Wallace out there,” Jill said.
I smiled. “I had nothing to do with the capture of Wallace. That’s all you, Tanner. I’m not even sure why I’m here.”
Jill shook her head. “So, this weekend, why don’t you come over? Rachel makes a pretty good lasagna. I’ll ask her to invite Valerie. Maybe you two will hit it off, and you’ll stop being a downer all the time.”
“You obviously don’t understand the definition of good time. I’m the life of the party. Besides, I have plans this weekend.”
“Oh yeah? What plans?”
“Too much fun for you. A date with my couch, a Hungry-Man dinner, and Scooby-Doo.”
“You’re right. I can’t handle that kind of excitement.”
Headphone guy came back. “We’re going live. Get ready. Remember no gum and no cursing.”
“Are you shitting me? No gum? Really? Fuck.”
Headphone guy huffed and walked away.
“He hates me,” Jill said.
“You’re not all that likeable,” I said.
“You love me, James Beamer. You really do.”
My phone rang interrupting the love fest.
“Jill, you’re going to have to handle this. That was the Bureau. There’s a break in the Sorority Slasher case. They need me in Atlanta.”
“Right now?” Jill looked at her watch. “We are going out in two minutes. What the hell am I supposed to do?”
I put on my jacket and headed for the door. “You’ll figure it out. You’re better than me at these things anyway. Remember the Kevin Sawyer case?”
“I don’t think I can spend forty-five minutes asking Rob Randle if he knows what Meat Loaf wouldn’t do for love.”
“With commercials, it’s only about thirty-five minutes. You’ll be fine. You never got the answer to the Meat Loaf question anyway, right?”
“You’re an asshole, James Beamer.”
“You love me, Jill Tanner. You really do.”
Jill grunted as I left the room. I stuck my head back through the crack in the door. “And no cursing on live television.”
“Asshole.”
“Hey, you can’t leave. You’re about to go on,” Headphone guy said.
I flashed my credentials. “Protecting the innocent comes before T.V. ratings,” I said as I exited the studio.
A black Suburban was waiting for me at the entrance of the guest parking lot.
The driver’s side window went down. “She’s going to kill you when she finds out you had me call to get you out of that,” Mack said.
“If you think she’s going to kill me, what is she going to do to you for going along with it?”
“Medieval torture? Firing squad? Maybe I’ll take her to Morocco.”
“You’re not going to be able to bribe her this time.”
Mack shrugged his shoulders. “Guess we’re both on borrowed time then. What now?”
“A burger?”
Mack shoved a piece of gum in his mouth. “Add bacon and I guess it’s not a bad last meal.”
Epilogue
Charlotte, North Carolina
Seven Years Later
The red Camaro pulled into the employee parking of Healing Hands Hospice. A new brief about another missing girl resonated through the radio. Four girls disappeared in South Carolina in two months. The police correspondent said Charleston PD was working with the FBI on the case and Special Agent James Beamer would be in Charleston within a day.
“Change the station,” she said.
He pressed the CD button on the radio. “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac played at low volume.
“I love this song,” she said, straightening her top. “But I hate these scrubs. I thought they were supposed to be comfortable.”
He turned the volume down. “Who cares? You look good in them.”
“I look good in five-inch heels too. But I’m allowed to bitch about their lack of comfort.”
“No one should ever walk in five-inch heels. They’re not meant for walking.”
She ignored him and pulled the sleeve of the shirt she wore under the scrubs toward her elbow. “Can you see it?” She referred to the tattoo depiction of the archangel Michael defeating Satan.
“I couldn’t see it before you pulled your shirt down. It’s fine.”
She held an employee ID to the windshield and flipped it between her fingers. “And you’re sure this will get me in?”
“Positive. I hacked into the system and downloaded the employee directory. This week a couple of new nurses are starting. They won’t say a word to you.”
“I’m not worried about that. I can bullshit my way through anything. Will this get me through the door?” She pointed the ID card at him.
“I’m hurt you don’t have faith in me. Just swipe the card, put the access code in. You remember the code, right?”
“629436.”
“You’re golden. Don’t worry about that, but are you sure this is something you want to do. You don’t have to see him.”
“Do you believe in destiny?” she asked.
“I think with all the shit we’ve been through we were destined to end up together.”
“Then don’t doubt me when I tell you this is my destiny.”
“I never doubt you. But remember what Shakespeare said, ‘It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.’”
She smiled. “It makes you feel smart to quote Shakespeare, doesn’t it?”
He laughed. “No, it makes me feel smart to break into the FBI’s computers within two minutes. Quoting Shakespeare makes me feel sophisticated.”
She took his hand and squeezed. “I have to do this. It’s inside me. And then we are free to start this little club you keep talking about.”
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “Then go do it, Chelle.”
“I won’t be long.”
“Take your time,” Jessie said, holding up a paperback book. “I’ll read a little.”
“Twist the Blade? That sounds cheery.”
“It’s by this new writer, Ben Graham. He’s got a sick mind.”
“Don’t get any ideas?”
“Me? Never? I’m reading it so I’ll have something to talk about with you.”
Chelle smiled and got out of the car. She walked over to the driver’s side. “One last thing. How does the hair look?”
“Blonde works for you. I mean, you’re a little pale.
But I can see myself shacking up with the blonde you.”
“Pale, huh?” Chelle smiled and headed for the employee entrance. An uneasy feeling clung to her like a shadow. She wasn’t questioning what she was about to do. For years, Chelle knew this was something she would have to face. The uneasiness came because she didn’t feel bad about doing it. Maybe her grandfather was right. Maybe this was in her blood. She swiped the employee card, entered the access code, and the door unlocked.
Chelle walked by a group of nurses who didn’t acknowledge her existence. Helping Hands was a small place, only twenty patients. He couldn’t be hard to find. She walked down the east wing and nodded as two orderlies walked by. They weren’t quiet when they expressed how hot the new nurse was, it was almost as if they wanted her to hear them. Chelle smirked and shook her head.
The east wing came to an end at a window that overlooked an open field flanked by trees. It was probably a beautiful picture in the fall, but during winter everything looked dead. Chelle gazed out the window, unable to ignore the comparisons of dead leaves to the atmosphere in the hospice. This would be the last place most of these people saw. Sadness washed over her. She shook it off as fast as it came on. Chelle had a job to do. Today she was the Grim Reaper.
Chelle turned to walk back down the hallway when she saw him sitting there in a sparse room. His back was to her. He was confined to a wheelchair, but she knew that it was him. To the world, Norman Wallace died seven years ago. By name he did. Chelle knew different. He bought his way out of jail with a shitload of money and a promise to never be heard from again. Monahan’s experimental treatment was only supposed to bide Norman a few months, a year if he was lucky. Whatever Monahan did for Norman was a miracle. Death stabbed him in the gut with cancer, but it would take more than that to end him. Norman never let Death forget Evil is one tough bastard to kill. Death never let Norman forget it was persistent. The cancer moved to Norman’s lungs. Death always gets the last laugh.
