Facing Hell (A James Beamer Thriller Book 3) Page 5

  “Great.”

  The rain picked up. In a blink, it was a downpour. Michelle ran down the closest alley looking for shelter. Just before she got to the doorway of an abandoned ice cream shop, with an overhang that would shield her, Michelle stumbled over something and fell face first on the asphalt.

  “What the hell, man?”

  A man with red shaggy hair and matching scruff slid out from underneath a pile of newspapers.

  Michelle winced in pain, but held her breath, and got to her feet.

  “Didn’t you see me sleeping here?” the man asked.

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to get out of the rain.”

  “We’re all trying to get out of the rain, honey.” The man inched closer. “You look familiar.”

  He walked toward Michelle who ran in the opposite direction. The rain pelting against her face made it hard to see. Once she felt she had put safe distance between her and the man, Michelle crawled through the broken window of what appeared to be a hardware store.

  There was pure darkness, but at least there was no rain. The smell of mold was strong. It was still better than being soaking wet. Michelle placed her backpack on the floor and sat down. Even though death could lurk in the black, she felt at peace. She felt at home with the uncertainty. The calming feeling allowed exhaustion to seep in. It wasn’t long before Michelle dozed off. She propped her head on the backpack and closed her eyes.

  The sound of metal scraping against concrete sent Michelle’s body into a series of twitches. A beam of light caused her to blink. She felt the chill of the concrete beneath her. Michelle tried to stand up, but something wouldn’t allow it. Cold metal burned her skin. The chain around her hips, attached to the floor, meant Michelle was going nowhere.

  “How long have you been watching me?” The question came from Michelle’s mouth, but it wasn’t her voice.

  “A few weeks. I had to make sure you were one of them.”

  A man who looked like Michelle’s father stepped out from the shadows. He ran the blade of a knife along his forearm, shaving hairs away.

  “I told myself to hide the glow. It makes me stand out among the darkness. I knew that you were looking for me.”

  “And why didn’t you listen to yourself?”

  “Because I’m Sunshine. It’s my job to bring the light. You can’t scare me. Like I told you, I’m not afraid to die. I’ve seen the future, and no matter what you think, you can’t win.”

  The man laughed.

  “You’ll die before you finish this. Michael will kill you.”

  The man plunged the knife into Michelle’s neck. “Michael will not win.”

  Michelle sat up, gasping for air. “Dad.”

  A ray of light blinded her. Death was nothing special, just the stereotypical bright light cross over. A car horn made Michelle think of angels welcoming her to Heaven. The shouting that followed the horn assured her she wasn’t dead. The light was the sun peeking through a wooden board covering a broken window. It was only a dream. She ran her hand over her neck feeling for a gaping hole. Nothing. No war injuries, Michelle felt tougher after surviving her first night on the streets, but she questioned leaving home.

  “What am I doing? I can’t live here?”

  Off-key singing from outside the window drew Michelle’s attention. She walked to the window and eyed a man, in a wheelchair, with his back to the window, strumming a guitar, and singing “Kings” by Steely Dan. His voice cracked and Michelle chuckled. The man stopped singing.

  “Think you can do better?” he asked without turning around.

  Michelle crouched and backed away from the window.

  “I know you’re in there. Smiley told me he saw you run in there last night. Come on out and introduce yourself. We don’t bite. No matter how hungry we get.”

  Michelle grabbed her backpack and looked for another way out of the building. Her choices were bleak after noticing both doors boarded shut from the outside. She could break another window, but that would draw more attention. She wasn’t sure how many people were outside.

  “That place holds secrets. And you don’t want to be carrying them around with you.”

  Michelle stopped looking for an exit. The man’s words struck a nerve exposed by the nightmare. Curiosity got the best of her.

  “What kind of secrets?”

  “The kind that’s best kept buried,” the man said. “I’m going to sing another song. That is if you do not rudely interrupt this time. Any requests?” He waited a few seconds. “No? OK, then.”

  He sang “I Got a Name” by Jim Croce. Michelle crept back to the window.

  “Know any Soundgarden?” She asked.

  He stopped playing the guitar and laughed. “I’ll need the whole band for that. How about this?” He started singing “Where Did You Sleep Last Night?”

  Michelle smiled. “You know Nirvana?”

  “It’s actually Leadbelly. Nirvana covered it.”

  “Well, I’m impressed,” Michelle said, crawling out of the window.

  The man sat the guitar down and turned the wheelchair around. The part of his face not covered by hair turned as white as his beard when he saw Michelle. She backed away after seeing the shock on his face. Michelle planted her back firmly against the building.

  “Sunshine?”

  Michelle thought back to the dream…Because I’m Sunshine. “Who?”

  The man shook his head. “Never mind, you look like someone I used to know.”

  “My name is Chelle.”

  The man still shaking his head grinned. “You look just like her.”

  “Who’s Sunshine?”

  “Just an angel who used to brighten up this place. I’m Pipes.”

  Michelle smiled. “Sounds like she was special.”

  “Why are you sleeping with the ghosts?” Pipes pointed to the rundown hardware store.

  “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I’m not afraid of ghosts.”

  Pipes picked up his guitar and strummed the opening chords of Robyn Hitchcock’s “Trams of Old London.” “The ghosts in there don’t care if you’re scared of them. They’ll still haunt you.”

  Michelle sat on the curb and listened to Pipes butcher the song. After the first chorus, she asked, “Tell me what happened?”

  Pipes stopped singing, but still strummed the guitar. “These streets will show you some bad things, but a girl of your age shouldn’t be witness to what happened in there.”

  “Did Sunshine die?”

  Pipes let the guitar pick slide over a few strings creating a screeching sound.

  “I think I saw her get killed in a dream,” Michelle said.

  Pipes propped the guitar against his wheelchair. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Chelle.”

  “I got that, but who are you? You look like Sunshine and you know she died in…” Pipes cut himself off.

  Michelle thought for a moment before answering. She was tired of being someone she wasn’t. The reason she left home was so she could be herself. “I ran away from home because me and my mom had to go into a witness protection program because my grandfather is apparently some psycho serial killer. And oh yeah, my dad abandoned us.”

  “What’s your last name?” Pipes asked.

  “Why?” Michelle backed up onto the curb and grabbed her backpack.

  Pipes laughed. “Do I look like a threat? I’m pretty sure you can out walk me.” He moved the wheels on the chair.

  Michelle eased her grip on the bag. “Callahan.”

  Pipes covered his mouth and stroked his beard. “I’ll be damned. You’re Mike’s daughter aren’t you?”

  “You know my dad?”

  “Used to. I thought he died in that car wreck on Lover’s Leap.”

  “Yep, that was fake. Mom told me we had to die to live. It was bullshit. I’ve felt dead ever since.”

  “Watch your language, young lady. These are the streets, but you’re too young to be talking like that. Where’s Mike now?
”

  Michelle smirked at the scolding. “Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t seen the bastard in seven years.” She put emphasis on the word bastard as a blatant disregard for Pipes’s warning.

  “Your father is a good man. If you haven’t seen him, it’s for your protection.”

  “Oh, what’s he going to do? Kill me, like he did Sunshine?” Michelle paused. “Yeah, I saw him jam the knife in her neck.”

  “Your father didn’t kill Sunshine. Your uncle did.”

  “Uncle. But, he looked just like Dad.”

  “Mike had a twin brother. Identical. Many years ago he killed at least five people before your father stopped him. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you have the wrong impression of Mike. Your uncle had this crazy notion that certain people were fireflies. He thought by killing them he was bringing the end of the world. He kidnapped Rebec…your mother, thinking she was a firefly. Mike shot him. Reid finished him off and erased his existence.”

  “Uncle Reid?” Michelle asked.

  “You know Reid Hoffman?”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t seen that bastard in seven years either.”

  14

  James Beamer

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  “I know I said you’re running the show, but think a minute before you do this,” Reid said. “All the years we’ve put into catching this son-of-a-bitch. If someone else gets him…”

  “If someone else gets him, at least he’s off the streets and what’s left of our lives can be normal,” I said, adjusting my tie in the mirror.

  “What did you tell Decker?”

  “The basics. Nothing about you having a shrine to Wallace. As far as Decker knows I received a tip that Wallace may not be dead and that he has ties to the Exitium case.”

  “Is that how you’re going to present it?”

  “I’m going to tell anyone watching that the devil they thought was dead is alive and well.” I took an age-enhanced photo of Wallace off the fax machine. “And if anyone sees him to contact the Bureau.”

  “The Bureau won’t do the right thing, James. Wallace has to die. We have to be the ones to kill him.”

  “Reid, this isn’t vigilante justice. I know the history with Wallace, but Michelle is out there. He probably already knows that. We don’t have time to hunt him alone anymore. If he’s caught, he goes to jail. One way or another he will die in there.”

  “The adoring public is waiting for you,” Jill said, bursting into the room. “Straighten your tie for God’s sake.” She gave my tie a tug. “Paper, Rock, Scissors?” She smiled.

  “Not this time. I’m actually looking forward to this one,” I said.

  Reid grabbed my arm as I was leaving. “Are you sure this is how you want to handle things? If this backfires, he may go into hiding, and we’ll never find him.”

  “Would that be a bad thing?” Jill asked.

  Reid looked at me. “Do want to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder?”

  I took a moment before answering. “He’s old, Reid. At worst, it will be ten years.” I smiled. “Listen, I know this is risky. But we have to try to pull Wallace out of the shadows.”

  Reid shook his head, turned his back to me, and sat down. He had the disposition of a pouting child.

  “Go out there and smoke this evil asshole out.” Jill winked. “I’ll stay with Reid.”

  As I walked down the corridor to the briefing room, doubt did its best to pull me in the opposite direction. Was I making a mistake? Maybe Reid was right. What if this sent Wallace into deeper hiding? I’d never get the chance to see Michelle again. She was thirteen. If Wallace had another ten years in him, I’d miss high school graduation. Hell, I may even miss Michelle’s wedding. I stopped about ten feet from the room. If Wallace gets to her, she will never graduate, never get married, never have a chance at a happy life.

  I shook the doubt and stepped into the briefing room.

  15

  Norman Wallace

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  Norman poured a glass of scotch and took a seat at the small desk in his hotel room. Across the top of the desk was a road map with several red marks and notes. He picked up a pen; in blue ink he drew a trek from California to North Carolina. He put a star at Winston-Salem.

  For the last seven years, Norman had someone watching Rebecca and Michelle’s every move. His plant made contact with Michelle when she ran away from home. She didn’t tell Norman’s accomplice where she was going. She didn’t have to. Norman knew Charlotte would be the first place people looked. Michelle didn’t want to be found. She would go to Winston-Salem, the place where her father grew up. It was close enough to the only place she ever called home, but far enough away to stay hidden. Hidden from everyone but Norman.

  He took another pen and drew a red circle around Arlington, Virginia. Norman sketched a skull and crossbones near the circle.

  “This is where it all ends, Reid.”

  An obnoxious beeping coming from the television drew his attention away from the map. Across the bottom of the screen were the words Breaking News: A Development in the Exitium Case. Norman grabbed the remote and turned the volume up just as a reporter explained that Special Agent James Beamer requested a briefing to give the public the latest on the case.

  “This should be good,” Norman picked up his scotch and sat on the corner of the bed.

  James Beamer walked to the podium and spoke.

  “Thank you for coming out this afternoon and let me apologize in advance to the viewing audience for interrupting your soap operas. Nick didn’t die in the car crash. But he’s being held captive by Nikki, and she’s going to tell him the baby isn’t his, but it’s his brother’s.”

  The reporters laughed.

  Norman smirked and took a sip of scotch.

  “But in all seriousness, we are holding this news conference this afternoon to give you an update in the Exitium case. First, the deadly agent has not been identified, but my good friend Dr. Mack Root is getting closer to an answer. Second, there haven’t been any new cases reported. With that out of the way, I would like to take a moment to address a hot tip we received.”

  Beamer sized up the audience of reporters.

  “You’re all probably too young to remember this, but long before the mystic of The Zodiac, there was a serial killer dubbed The Morning Star Killer.”

  Norman choked on scotch and coughed.

  “His name was Norman Wallace.” Beamer held up a photo of a younger Norman from the fifties. “For over forty years it’s been presumed that he’s dead. I have a credible source that suggests otherwise.”

  “Reid Hoffman,” Norman said, clearing his throat.

  “This is an age-enhanced photo of what Wallace would look like today.” Beamer held the photo to a camera. “Through DNA testing of the Cupcake Catastrophe as you guys call it, we have a possible match to Wallace. We ask that if you see him, you call the 800-number scrolling across the bottom of the screen. That’s all I have at the moment. But, I’ve rented the podium for twenty minutes. I have a few left, so I’ll take some questions.”

  “Agent Beamer, Sam Newsome with Channel 12, can you elaborate on the evidence you have that links Wallace to the case?”

  “Now, Sam Newsome with Channel 12, you know very well I cannot divulge what evidence we have in the Exitium case. Next question?”

  “Amber Williams, The Observer, Mr. Beamer, have you heard anything that would lead you to believe another attack is imminent?”

  “Look, the way the first attack went down leads us to believe it was a trial run. But that doesn’t mean you should be scared to leave your house. The goal of terrorism is to invoke, well, terror. Fight it, by going out, having a good time, and giving the finger to fear. I can say that on television, right?”

  Norman chuckled.

  “Last question,” Beamer said.

  “Jose Menendez, Channel 13. Agent Beamer, if Norman Wallace had something to do with this
, why now? And why do you think he was dormant for so long?”

  “Did you see this photo, Jose?” Beamer held up the age-enhanced photo. “Judging by this, I would say he’s been dormant because of osteoporosis, degenerative joint disease, or maybe having a face only a mother could love.”

  Norman muted the television. “Well played, son. But I killed my mother.” He walked back to the desk. “Your little game is going to rush me. I hate to feel rushed.” He wrote a name, in red ink, beside the skull and crossbones.

  Barbara Hoffman.

  16

  The Plague Vendor

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  The Vendor threw the remote at the television, shattering the screen. “How dare you give that old fucker credit for my work?” He picked up the television and flung it against the wall cracking the plaster. The walls of his apartment looked like dry soil begging for rain. Cracks and divots that matched the Vendor’s knuckles perfectly were the only decorations. To say he had a temper problem would be an understatement.

  The Beamer press conference had him on fire. He stomped on shards from nineteen-inch television, grinding pieces of plastic into the scratched hardwood floor.

  “Tell me I’m not going to be successful. I’ll show you, old man. I’ll kill everyone in the goddamn city including you. And then I’ll rip Beamer’s intestines out after he issues an apology to me.”

  The Vendor picked up a stack of compact discs and hurled them across the room. Shards of clear plastic bounced off baseboards and beams of silver raced up the walls. The phone rang, putting a hold on the destruction.

  “What?”

  “Calm down. This means nothing.”

  “Did you see that load of shit?”

  “I did. When the smoke clears everyone will know who unleashed Armageddon.”

  “It won’t be Wallace,” The Vendor said.

  “Of course it won’t.”