Facing Hell (A James Beamer Thriller Book 3) Page 6

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  The caller’s tone changed from sympathetic to matter of fact. “You will not harm Wallace. He has the right to choose to not be a part of this. But you will not contact him again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Beamer? Can I kill him? Or is he precious too?”

  “String him up and parade him around the streets for all I care. You’ll receive a package today. There will be four needles. Each will contain about .36 grams of Apollyon. That’s enough to kill the average man within two days.”

  “Apollyon? That’s what you’re calling it now?”

  “Apollyon is Greek for destroyer. In Revelations, Apollyon is the king of locusts. You want this will be the last plague, right?”

  “I’m tired of this Revelations shit. That’s all for Wallace. I just want to kill as many people as possible.”

  “And you will as long as you stick to the plan.”

  “Four needles will not kill a lot of people.”

  “Four needles will show the world we are just beginning. There will also be four chocolate coins in the package. Inject Apollyon into the chocolate and find four children to give the candy to on Halloween.”

  “Nothing like ruining Halloween with some dead kids,” The Vendor said. The thought of murder calmed the rage.

  “Did you get your mask?”

  The Vendor picked up the replica plague doctor mask and slid it over his head. He stared in the mirror in silence for a few moments before responding.

  “I did. I’m ready.”

  A chime from the doorbell interrupted the conversation.

  “Gotta go, Doc, the Great Pumpkin is at the door.”

  The Vendor hung up before the caller could respond. He checked the mask in the mirror again and walked to the door. Through the peephole, he saw a man tapping a pen against a clipboard.

  “That was fast,” he said, opening the door.

  “Package for R. Hiatt,” the delivery man said without looking up from the clipboard.

  “I’m R. Hiaat.”

  The Vendor’s muffled tone caught the delivery guy’s attention. He took a few steps back when he saw the masked man standing at the door. The Vendor laughed.

  “Tomorrow’s Halloween. I’m trying on my costume. Like it?”

  “Very fourteenth century.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Black Death. You’re a plague doctor, right?” The delivery man handed the clipboard to The Vendor.

  “That’s right. You know a lot about the plague?” The Vendor signed the delivery slip with a squiggly line and handed it back.

  “Can you print your name also? Yeah, I’m majoring in history. That stuff that happened here at that coffee shop was pretty plague-like, don’t cha think?”

  The Vendor wrote something on the slip and handed it back to the man.

  “Thanks, Mr. Hiatt. Have a great day.”

  The Vendor eyed the package, not bigger than a shoebox next to his feet. Then he looked at the man waiting for the elevator.

  “He knows.”

  The Vendor grabbed a pair of scissors from a table next to the door and ran after the delivery guy. Just as the man stepped into the elevator, The Vendor sunk the scissors into his shoulder. He fell forward, smashing the side of his face against a mirrored wall shattering it. The Vendor pulled the scissors from the man’s shoulder and sunk them into his gut just as he turned to face him.

  “Why…?”the delivery guy asked. He gasped for air, making sounds similar to a punctured tire.

  The Vendor plunged the scissors into his stomach again. The man coughed sending a spittle of blood over the plague doctor mask. He twisted the blades deeper.

  “Why? Because I am Death,” The Vendor said.

  The rush of power was short-lived. Panic shadowed The Vendor as he stood over the dead man, dangling the murder weapon from his fingers. The body had to disappear. So far, he was lucky, it was mid-afternoon, and everyone on the third floor of the apartment building was at work. He opened the elevator and scoped out the hall before lifting the delivery man’s limp body and dragging him back to his apartment. All the way, The Vendor kept repeating, “He knows. He knows.”

  The Vendor dropped the body on his living room floor and tossed the scissors back on the table. He grabbed a handful of paper towels, from the kitchen, and wet them before returning to the elevator to clean up the streaks of crimson on the mirrors.

  “He had to die. He knew about the plan. No one can mess this up. No one.”

  The Vendor scrubbed the broken mirror carefully, making sure not to leave any residue from the towels on the jagged edges.

  “Everyone will have to die.”

  He lifted the mask from his face and gazed into the shattered glass.

  “This is all your fault, Root. You created this. It’s time for you to take the guilt to Hell with you.”

  17

  James Beamer

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  “That went well, right?”

  “Wallace is livid if he watched that,” Jill said.

  “I don’t know,” Reid said. “Wallace doesn’t crack. I doubt that made him mad…or scared. He’s mastered blending in. If anything, this will just make him a little more cautious. He will not stop looking for Michelle.”

  “I know that, Reid. But now, I have the entire Bureau and every detective in America hoping to bag the big one. This is my daughter we are talking about. I have to do everything in my power to protect her.”

  “If Wallace wants her, he will get her.”

  I slammed my fist against a desk. “Then what the hell should I have done, Reid? Wallace has killed your mother and destroyed my family. How many more people have to die in this ghost hunt you’re on?”

  “Guys, calm down,” Jill said. “Nothing’s worked so far. This is worth a shot. If he gets Michelle, there is no telling what he will do with her.”

  The sound of clapping cut Reid off before he could respond.

  “Excellent speech, Mr. Beamer,” Mack said, holding a cup of coffee in the bend of his elbow. He clapped again. “Bravo. Bravo.”

  “Cut it out, Root,” Reid said.

  Mack sat the coffee down. “Did you hear anything about Michelle?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Reid thinks the press conference was a bad idea.”

  “Well, like Alfred Griswold said, ‘the only sure weapon against bad ideas is better ideas.’ So if this doesn’t work we’ll try something else,” Mack said.

  Reid stood up and left the room without saying a word.

  “I’ll get him some fresh coffee,” Jill said, tapping me on the shoulder as she left.

  “Any news on the Exitium case?” I asked

  “There’s no new cases. So, that’s a good thing.” Mack pulled a folder from his backpack. “The one survivor, Tabitha Giles, is in a safe house with her family for now. I don’t want it getting out that anyone survived.” He handed me the folder. “I took a deeper look at her blood work. Even though she only tasted a cupcake, it was enough to infect her. Her blood contained the agent.”

  “So, why wasn’t she affected by it then?”

  “Chickenpox, like I suspected,” Mack said, shoving a piece of gum into his mouth. “That’s an educated guess of course. Her immune system was still in battle mode. We have to do more tests.”

  “I don’t get it. So, this stuff isn’t as strong as you originally thought?”

  “Just the opposite, it’s more potent. Giles said she had one bite, yet she had just as much, if not more of the agent in her system than the nine that died. She’s a lucky girl.”

  I smiled. “So, what you’re telling me is that you really don’t know any more about the stuff.”

  Mack smirked. “Science isn’t an exact…well…science, Agent Beamer.”

  Jill burst through the door. “Guys turn on the television.”

  I searched for the remote for a minute before Jill walked over to the television and turned it on. There
was a breaking news report with a scrolling caption that read, Killer Reveals Himself.

  “Wallace?” I asked.

  “No,” Jill said. “The Cupcake Killer. Just watch.”

  “If you’re just tuning in,” the male reporter said, “about twenty minutes ago, someone patched into our live feed as we were discussing the Agent Beamer press conference that revealed The Morning Star Killer, suspected to be dead, may be behind the killings at the Sonic Brew coffee shop. Here is the video in its entirety.”

  The screen turned from color to black and white. A person wearing a mask similar to something doctors wore during the Black Death paced back and forth, in and out of the camera’s range.

  “Bubonic Plague. It was responsible for wiping out half of Europe’s population in the fourteenth century. Something so devastating brought upon by something so small — a flea. What happened at that coffee shop was the beginning of the last plague.” The masked man stopped pacing and faced the camera. His calm voice deepened. “I am the fear you’ll feel when you’re in the grocery store wondering if the person next to you is infected.” He chuckled. “I am the terror that rips your soul apart while you’re sitting in church praying for immunity to a God who will not listen.” He brought the camera closer to his face and sat in silence for about thirty seconds. “I am the only god who can save you.” There was more silence. “But I won’t, and you can thank that flea James Beamer. I assure you I am not Norman Wallace. I am extermination. I am the end. I am death.” He sat the camera back down. “I am The Plague Vendor.”

  The screen went black and then back to color. I turned the television off before the reporter began dissecting the speech.

  “Probably time for one of those better ideas,” Reid said, standing in the doorway.

  “I’ll get in touch with Gonzalez and see if he can figure out how this guy hacked into the T.V. station’s feed,” Jill said.

  “We need Jessie,” I said.

  “I told you I haven’t seen that bastard since he stole my credit card,” Reid said. “I wouldn’t know where to look.”

  “He’s in Nashville,” Mack said. “I talked to him two days ago. I had no idea he stole your card.”

  “He stole over three-thousand dollars,” Reid said.

  “We can deal with that later,” I said. “Get him here, Mack.”

  18

  The Plague Vendor

  Charlotte, North Carolina

  The phone rang. It was the tenth time in the last five minutes. The Vendor knew the caller wouldn’t be happy with him. But introducing himself to the world was something he had to do. After Beamer’s press conference and the delivery man, the end of the world was in jeopardy. The eleventh time the phone rang, the caller left a message.

  “I know you’re there. What the hell were you thinking? That little stunt put the heat on both of us. The plan has changed. Do not use the Apollyon tomorrow. We need to wait for this to die down. Call me.”

  The Vendor tossed the delivery man’s body in the bathtub. “Call you? I don’t think so. You’re just another roadblock to my success now.” He wiped blood from his hand with a white towel and tossed it over the dead man’s face. “I can’t leave you here. Fuck it. Tomorrow night after the show, I’ll just burn the whole damn building down.”

  A chime from the computer brought The Vendor back into the living room. The flashing mail icon stoked his curiosity. Opening it could lead the FBI to him if it’s a trick. He patched into the television’s feed. That had to create vulnerability, but he masked his I.P. address. The email chimed again. He turned to walk away, but stopped. He reached for the mouse and clicked to open the email.

  Beamer is no fool. You best believe he has a team doing everything they can to find you right now. The needless ego stroke was stupid. But I wanted to thank you. At least you’ve gotten them off my back long enough for me to accomplish my goal. I’ll send you a care package in prison, if you live that long. - NW

  Rage pulsed through The Vendor like adrenaline. He picked up the computer monitor and flung it through the air. It crashed onto the kitchen floor sending glass all over the linoleum. He threw the mouse at the wall.

  “I don’t give a damn what you say, I’m killing Wallace too.”

  19

  Jessie Walker

  Nashville, Tennessee

  “Yeah, I watched the tape.”

  “And?”

  “The guy’s using a Connectix. It’s the only camera commercially available. It’s only works on a Macintosh. And it set him back about a hundred bucks.”

  “That’s all you’ve got?” Mack asked.

  “That’s all I’ve looked for so for. How pissed is he?”

  “Reid? Oh, he’s pissed. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say he’s at ‘I will kill him if I ever see him again.’ Look for more and call me back.” Mack hung up.

  Jessie turned on a computer and typed a password on the keyboard. A black screen appeared. He played the video of The Vendor and typed Catch I.P.. Jessie took a sip of Mountain Dew and waited. The screen filled with green numbers.

  “Lincoln, Nebraska. Smart enough to mask your I.P., huh? That’s OK.”

  Jessie typed Unmask I.P.. The computer made a sound reminiscent of a slot machine hitting jackpot.

  “Only one layer of protection, Mr. Vendor. Now, you’ve gone and let me catch you.”

  67.158.555.12 Charlotte, North Carolina appeared on the screen.

  “Well, I already knew that. Let’s see if you can tell me something I don’t know.”

  He typed, Find Exact Location for 67.158.555.12.

  After about fifteen seconds, the computer made a sound similar to typing and returned a result.

  Richard Hiatt, The Grove, 212 Hawthorne Lane #6, Charlotte, North Carolina 28204.

  Jessie took another sip of Mountain Dew. “From the video, I should have known you were a Dick. Let’s see what you’re hiding under that mask.” He typed Surveillance Cameras: The Grove Apartment Complex, Charlotte, NC.

  The computer chimed. Four cameras located. FRONT ENTRANCE, REAR ENTRANCE, MAILBOXES, ELEVATOR.

  “Choices, choices.” Jessie finished the soda and tossed the can onto the floor. “Your little video is an obvious butt-hurt rebuttal to Beamer’s press conference. That happened about one. You patched into the news feed around five.” He typed, Pull ELEVATOR feed from 1:30pm to 5pm. 10-30-1994. “That’s going to take a while.”

  While he waited, Jessie slid his chair to another computer and researched Richard Hiatt’s life. In less than five minutes, he knew everything there was to know about John Richard Hiatt. Only one thing stood out. Hiatt led a pretty boring life, but in the summer of 1987 he was kicked out of the police academy on a recommendation from Dr. Mack Root.

  “Mack?” Jessie hacked into the Knoxville Police Department records. There was nothing about Hiatt’s dismissal. “Sorry, bud.” He typed, SEARCH Mack Root C:DRIVE for “Hiatt”. A few years ago, when Jessie stayed with Mack, he created a hidden file on Mack’s computer that would give Jessie complete access to his computer….just in case. Mack kept a file on everything. Jessie never planned on accessing it, but he was a criminal who always liked to be prepared. Before the search results populated, the other computer chimed.

  Jessie swiveled back around to the Macintosh and watched the feed from the elevator. It was still downloading, but there was enough to get started. The elevator was quiet until the 2:16 mark. A delivery man stumbled into the elevator, hitting his head against the mirrored-wall. Someone dressed in a black jumpsuit and mask walked in behind the delivery guy and stabbed him in the stomach.

  “Dick, you’ve got to learn to control that temper of yours.”

  Jessie saw enough. He already knew what Hiatt looked like from a Tennessee driver’s license that popped up while he was researching him. All that was left to find out was why Mack had him booted from the academy. Jessie turned his attention back to the Dell. There was one result. The file detailed an altercation with Hiatt duri
ng a training session at The Body Farm in which Hiatt was bullying another rookie cop, Jill Tanner.

  “You guys really know how to attract the freaks, don’t cha?”

  Jessie typed, Richard Hiatt, PHONE NUMBER, Charlotte, NC. and waited for the results.

  Sorry, no results.

  “Really? I know you have a phone. You have Internet.” Jessie whirled back to the Macintosh and brought up the original Vendor video from the news station. He typed in the unmasked I.P. address linked to the video followed by PHONE NUMBER attached to I.P. address.

  After a few seconds, there was another jackpot sound effect, and a number popped up on the screen.

  “The world doesn’t believe me, but not even the Invisible Man can hide if I want to find him.”

  Jessie picked up the phone. As he was about to dial the number, the phone rang.

  “I haven’t found anything yet. I told you, things like this take time.”

  There was no response.

  “Look, if this is about that Hulk Hogan hotline, it wasn’t me.”

  “You’ve been lying to me.” The voice was weak but stern.

  “Wallace?”

  Norman Wallace always had to have an inside source. For years, it was Special Agent Ron Yemana. After Yemana’s suicide, Wallace had to find another source. Since Jessie was the person who orchestrated the tragic passing of the Callahans, he was the only logical choice. But unlike Yemana, Jessie had no family for Norman to threaten. The only thing that motivated Jessie was money. And lots of it.

  At least that’s what Jessie wanted Norman to believe. When Norman first made contact with Jessie he was led to think that Jessie would sell his own mother out if enough dollar signs dangled in front of him. There was truth in deceit. But he remembered how much it hurt Rebecca to have her family ripped apart by Norman. The feeling was like pouring salt into an open wound for Jessie, who never had much of a family. He never knew his father and his mother spent most of her evenings with Johnnie Walker. She knew Johnnie so well if Jessie didn’t know better he would think Johnnie was his father. When Wallace told Jessie of his intentions to monitor his granddaughter, Jessie had to protect her. The best way to do that was to agree to track her and give Norman false information. Making enough money to live like a king was just a perk. Jessie didn’t need to steal money from Reid for the computers. He could have bought ten just on what Norman paid him every month. But explaining the he bought the computers with stolen credit cards was easier than the truth. Now, the truth was out to Norman, Jessie scammed him from the get go.