Facing Hell (A James Beamer Thriller Book 3) Read online

  Who was shooting? Who was helping him?

  The Vendor walked along the fence line until he came to the end. In front of him was open space. Behind him were Mack Root and the cops. The shooting stopped. It wouldn’t be long before they were on him. He had only one option — to run. He looked both ways. No cops. He made a dash for the other side of the road. He could run the fence line again and hopefully avoid the beaming light of the helicopter he knew wasn’t far behind.

  Headlights froze him like a deer when he made it into the open. A banged up Blazer screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger door opened.

  “Get in.”

  The Vendor didn’t move.

  “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in jail get in the fucking car now.”

  26

  The Spotter

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  “That didn’t work out as you planned it, huh?” The Spotter eased the Blazer onto the interstate.

  “Who are you?”

  “You can call me Cagney.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Let’s say I have an aversion to pigs. That, and Norman Wallace figured you’d need backup. He’s uncanny with his predictions.”

  “A regular fucking Nostradamus,” The Vendor said. “I guess I should thank you.”

  “You should. Here.” Cagney handed The Vendor a jug of water. “Looks like you could use this.”

  The excitement, adrenaline, and running sucked all the saliva from The Vendor’s mouth. Without hesitation, he guzzled the water.

  “Where are we going now?”

  Cagney smiled. “I’m going to get a cheeseburger. You’re probably going to Hell.”

  “Wha…” The tingling sensation on The Vendor’s lips made him forget his words. Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead. His fingers and toes numbed. Breathing became a chore. His heart banged against his chest cavity.

  “Sorry, had to get rid of the evidence.”

  Pain grabbed at The Vendor’s stomach, squeezing, trying to make him vomit. Reality hit him hard and fast. This was what his victims went through when he poisoned them.

  “You’re loose cannon,” Cagney said. “Monahan and Norman felt it would be in everyone’s best interest if I silenced you. And there was quite a bit of Apollyon left. They gave me the job of getting rid of it…so.” He pointed to the jug of water. “Kill two birds with one stone.”

  The Vendor grabbed his throat. He gagged.

  “It’s a bunch of that shit in there. Monahan said it only takes a little to kill someone. How ya feeling?”

  The Vendor opened his mouth to speak but frothy spit bubbled out from between his lips.

  “That bad, huh?”

  A tickle under The Vendor’s nose caused him to slap at his face. Blood splattered the dashboard.

  “Jesus, guy, calm down. This Blazer is a classic.”

  Crimson flowed from The Vendor’s nose. It was impossible to tell if it was from the Apollyon or the vicious way he slapped himself. He swung at his own face again. This time he couldn’t feel the blow. Everything was numb. But gauging from Cagney’s expression, it was a direct hit. Specks of red decorated the windshield. Cagney swerved, jerking the steering wheel to avoid contact with the blood.

  “Don’t get any of that shit on me.”

  The Vendor went to slap himself again, but his arm felt like a concrete slab. He couldn’t lift it. A film flooded his eyes leaving him with impaired vision through a milky-white tint. This was how it was to end. He was falling on his own sword. While the pain of Apollyon ravaging his body hurt, it had nothing on the weight of failure drowning him. John Richard Hiatt was born a fuck-up. It was fitting he would die one as well. Agony wrapped around his heart. The pressure crushed it. He tried to take one last deep breath, but it was not to be. He even failed at that. The world grew dark. The Vendor’s head slumped to the right, resting against the passenger-side window.

  Cagney turned off the interstate, drove a mile or two until he found an abandoned barn. The road leading to the barn showed no signs of travel in a long while. Weeds were about bumper level, but nothing the Blazer couldn’t handle. He pulled in behind the barn and killed the lights.

  “You owe me one, Monahan” he said, putting on a white jumpsuit. “You didn’t tell me he would punch the shit out of himself.” He slipped a beekeeper’s mask over his face. Spotting for Norman paid the bills, but beekeeping was his passion. “African bees can’t penetrate this; I sure hope your disease doesn’t.”

  Cagney opened the passenger door. The Vendor tumbled from the car, face first into dirt. Cagney jumped to the side, splatters of blood barely missed tainting his suit. “I don’t know why I can’t just leave you here.” He kicked The Vendor’s lifeless body. “But Norman is all about dramatics.”

  Cagney cleaned the inside of the Blazer with bleach. After he felt confident the vehicle was free of blood, he sprayed disinfectant on The Vendor’s face and wiped it clean. Cagney dragged the body to the Blazer. Plastic sheets lined the back of the truck. Cagney picked The Vendor up, noticing something in his back pocket. He lifted the dead man’s shirt to reveal a syringe protruding from the pocket. “Damn, that was close.” Cagney examined the needle. A small amount of liquid swished as he turned the syringe like an hourglass. “This is the last of the death drug. Maybe Norman wants it for sentimental value.”

  Cagney tossed The Vendor onto the plastic. He placed the syringe in the glovebox and called Norman.

  “Is it finished?”

  “It is. I have the present all cleaned up. I’m not putting a bow on the son-of-a-bitch though,” Cagney said.

  Norman laughed. “A bow will not be necessary. Just deliver the present like I asked. Did you get all the candy?”

  “He drank a good bit of it. I poured the rest out.”

  “No. The candy. Monahan said there were four candy coins.”

  “He didn’t have any candy on him.”

  Norman thought for a moment before responding. Did finding the candy coins mean anything? Did they have to be destroyed? The cops already had Apollyon from the cupcakes to study. Did a cure even matter at this point? There was no more Apollyon and none would ever be made. There was no concern the agent could be tied to Norman. On the other hand, Monahan should probably worry. Hiatt wasn’t the best at keeping things hidden. A search of his apartment could link the Apollyon to Monahan. It was in Norman’s best interest to keep the doctor a free man. Monahan would need to disappear.

  “He did have a needle though,” Cagney said.

  Norman’s thoughts shifted from protecting Monahan to how invaluable the needle could be. “Did it contain Apollyon?”

  “It’s not empty.”

  A scratching sound reverberated through the phone. Norman’s immaculate groomed beard tickled the microphone in his phone as he smiled.

  “Norman?”

  “I’m here. Just thinking. Where is the needle now?”

  “In the glovebox of my truck. I thought you may want to hang on to it.”

  “You know me all too well, Cagney.”

  27

  James Beamer

  Winston-Salem, North Carolina

  We were spinning in circles looking for Wallace. Frustration from seeing the same thing again and again numbed me. The hopelessness of knowing my daughter was alone and being hunted by Wallace was another level of armor-piercing pain.

  “We find Michelle and we find Wallace,” I said, trying to convince myself just as much as I was trying to calm Reid, who was bouncing his fists on knees. He was like a trapped animal in the car begging to be set free.

  “You’re betting everything she came back here,” Reid said. “She could be anywhere.”

  “Wallace is here somewhere. That means he thinks she’s here too.”

  My cellular phone’s display lit up with an orange hue. I answered it on the first ring.

  “He got away,” Mack said. His breath labored as if he had been running. “I had the
bastard and then…” he caught his breath.”…We took fire. Hiatt had help. Someone started picking us off. Two cops died. Another is in the hospital with a broken leg.”

  “I thought we were sure Hiatt was working alone,” I said.

  “We were wrong. I have two dead cops to say otherwise.”

  “Wallace,” I said. “He used Hiatt as a distraction.”

  “What about Wallace?” Reid asked.

  I pointed a finger to get Reid to wait a second before bombarding me with questions. “Wallace idolizes Sun Tzu. He had pages and pages of quotes in a notebook Reid found. ‘In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity.’ He created the chaos.”

  “Shit,” Mack said. “Why didn’t we see it?”

  The Caller ID clicked. “Gotta go, Mack. It’s Jill.”

  “I think you’re right. Wallace is in Winston-Salem,” Jill said before I could say hello. “I’ve been watching the state reports and a few hours ago there was a call to downtown for shots fired. When the uniforms got there they found one dead and another man in a wheelchair who isn’t saying much.”

  A knot formed in my throat making it impossible to respond. Downtown. We made a quick pass through there a few hours ago. It must have been just before the shooting. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It seemed like a ghost town. Then, something Jill said shook my mind from rambling. A man in a wheelchair. Pipes. He used to tell me that anytime anything resembling a cop car cruised the streets, the locals hid. If cops were downtown, someone was going to jail. Our tan Cutlass Supreme screamed “cop car.”

  “And here’s the kicker,” Jill’s tone changed. “The guy in the wheelchair did say someone tried to abduct a girl…and he asked for Mike Callahan.”

  The knot raced down my body like a cannonball being fired and exploded in my stomach. “Did he get Michelle?”

  “No. Thank God. The wheelchair guy said some kid showed up and saved her.”

  “Any idea where she went? Got anything on the kid?”

  “Nothing. I’ll keep trying.”

  I hung up and whipped the Cutlass around towards downtown.

  “What the hell is going on?” Reid asked.

  “Wallace found Michelle. She’s here in Winston.”

  28

  Michelle Callahan

  Arlington, Virginia

  “You really think this is a good idea?”

  Michelle shot a confused look at Jessie. “Are you afraid he’s going to kill you for stealing his credit card?”

  “Well, yeah, but…that’s not the point.”

  Michelle exhaled. “I have to do this. Uncle Reid had a room in the basement. He would never let me go in. I bet there is stuff on my grandfather in there.”

  Jessie thought back to sitting in Reid’s out-of-date basement, watching wrestling while listening to Reid and Michael Callahan argue over the ‘death’ of Michael Callahan. He remembered the room too. He never gained access, only because he never tried. Jessie was a thief. As oddly as it sounded he respected Reid’s privacy. He stole a few glances a couple of times when Reid went into the room, but never saw anything more than a few whiteboards covered in red and black ink and newspaper clippings plastered on the wall.

  “What are you hoping to find?” Jessie asked.

  “I need to know more about my family. I need to know why my grandfather is trying to get me.”

  “Some things aren’t meant to be uncovered.”

  “I have to find out, Jessie.”

  Jessie nodded. “And what are you going to do? Ask Reid to see the room? Don’t you think he will call your dad?”

  “Uncle Reid won’t be there. By now he knows my grandfather is looking for me. He won’t be home.”

  “What about Barbara?”

  “Let’s hope Aunt Barbara isn’t there.”

  Jessie looked at his Rolex. He wasn’t a watch guy. He wasn’t much of a name-brand guy at all unless it involved technology. The watch was a test. Jessie often challenged himself to gauge his criminal skills. He lifted the Rolex off of a guy at a gas station back in Tennessee, just to see if he could get away with it.

  “It’s pretty early in the morning. She’s probably at home,” Jessie said.

  Michelle smiled and pointed to the house. Barbara raced down the driveway, fumbling through her purse for keys.

  “OK, maybe she’s late for something,” Jessie said.

  They ducked their heads below the dashboard when Barbara drove by. There was no need to hide; Barbara wouldn’t have noticed them even if they waved.

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know, you’re the criminal. Get me in the house,” Michelle said.

  Jessie shook his head, leaned forward, and pulled something from the glove box. He held the thin piece of metal with a jagged tip up to the windshield. “This will get us into anywhere.”

  “Fort Knox?” Michelle asked like a brattish teenager.

  “No need. There is no gold in Fort Knox. It’s a ruse.” Jessie got out of the car and lowered his head to the driver’s side window. “Come on.”

  It took Jessie less than two minutes to pick the lock. He opened the door. “Ladies first.”

  An orange-colored cat brushed against Michelle’s leg when she entered the house.

  “Rockford.” She picked up the cat. It head-butted Michelle’s chin and purred.

  “No time for reunions,” Jessie said. “I’d like to do this and get out. Reid already wants my head on a platter.”

  Michelle placed the cat on the back of recliner and gave Rockford a few fast head scratches before heading to the stairs. “Wait here and keep a lookout for Aunt Barbara.”

  “No problem,” Jessie said. “I’m starving anyway. I’ll raid the fridge.”

  Michelle remembered being in Reid’s basement. The decor hadn’t changed. It looked to be plucked straight from the set of The Brady Bunch. The door to the right of the stairs led to the room few were granted access. She grabbed the gold knob and turned. Nothing. The door was locked. Her first instinct was to yell for Jessie, but she didn’t. She could pick this lock on her own. She wanted to show Jessie she could be just as good as him. Michelle grabbed a bobby pin that was keeping her bangs from her eyes. She blew her hair away from her face and wiggled the pin into the lock. She turned the knob. Click. The door opened.

  Michelle stood in silence for a few seconds admiring her accomplishment before entering the room. A moldy smell circled the air like a thick fog. Michelle coughed. Dust particles lodged in her throat. She coughed again and then gagged before clearing her throat. She flipped the light switch. The room came alive with relics of Reid’s obsession. Newspaper clippings of unsolved murders all over the United States covered one wall. Each article had either a red asterisk or a black one scribbled on it.

  Michelle walked the room, reading the walls. Clippings about The Morning Star Killer were taped to the back wall. After reading two articles Michelle realized The Morning Star Killer was her grandfather. The wall to the left of her held two whiteboards although there wasn’t much white visible. Red and black ink decorated the boards. She looked back at the wall with clippings of unsolved murders. “Black asterisks mean Norman Wallace is ruled out.”

  A beat-up notebook drew her attention to the wooden table below the whiteboards. She opened the book to the center. It looked to be a journal.

  August 25, 1980

  I’ve had my doubts that George was the one. I lived with the horror that Michael was the one with the urge. But since the dreams began, I am quite certain that George can follow through with the plan. I won’t know for sure until he silences his sister, but soon I will know.

  “Sunshine?”

  Michelle closed the book like someone hiding her eyes in the scary part of a movie. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. She ran her hand over the desk, shuffling through newspapers as she wrestled with digging deeper into her family’s past. Another notebook appeared. The contents would be bad. Everything about her grandfather was, but she
had to know. She had to be strong. Michelle opened the notebook and read.

  November 1, 1981

  This will be the last entry. Today starts a new chapter. George failed. Part of me always knew he would, but I held out hope. It was not to be. But today, I’ve been granted a new way. My granddaughter was born. When I visited the hospital, I had a feeling. She’s the one to carry on when I’m gone.

  Michelle sighed. “I forgot my birthday.”

  “You finished down there? We need to get out of here before the neighbors call the cops,” Jessie said. His words were barely audible, muffled from stuffing his face with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

  Michelle spread the newspapers over the desk. She tucked the notebooks under her arm, turned off the light, and locked the door.

  Jessie was standing at the top of the stairs with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. “Find anything good?”

  Michelle held up the notebooks. “I wouldn’t say good, but I think I found out how bad my grandfather really is, he thinks I’m like his kindred spirit or something?” She walked up the stairs and by Jessie.

  “You’re thirteen. How do you know about kindred spirits?”

  “I know a lot. I know that if you don’t wash that glass when you’re done, Aunt Barbara will know someone has been here. She is a clean freak. There is no way she’s ever been in that room down there.”

  “And you don’t think Reid will miss those?” Jessie pointed to the notebooks.

  “Well…”

  A piece of yellowing paper fell from one of the notebooks. Michelle picked it up and read.