Beyond belief (5 page)

“But why a cop?” his friends always asked in disbelief.

He usually responded with a shrug and the simple statement that his father had been on the force.

Like that really meant anything. But it always seemed to satisfy them.

His father
had
been on the force, a desk sergeant in the tiny Vinings station, and hardly a day went by that Dad didn't talk about how miserable the job made him. He now owned a revival movie theater, the Celluloid Palace, in Savannah.

The irony of the situation didn't escape Joe: He was a cop, and Dad was in the entertainment business. But Joe had always liked the camaraderie in the department, and when he began to think about changing careers, it had been a comfortable choice to make. He had known many of his fellow second- and third-generation officers since childhood, and he felt at home wearing Dad's worn Brigade holster.

Sam lifted his spectacles and took another long look at the photo. “I sure hope you nail the bastard who did this. It takes some kind of sicko to rig this kind of murder.”

“I can't argue with that.”

“But when you
do
figure it out, I hope you give me an exclusive on how he did it.”

Lyles smiled at the pretty television news reporter as she climbed into her Jaguar in the Kroger supermarket parking lot. “Darlene Farrell?” he asked.

She immediately assumed a defensive posture, obviously conditioned from years of dealing with scary fans and hormone-charged stalkers. “Yes?”

“You don't remember me, do you? I'm Harry Martin. I used to date Elizabeth MacKenzie.”

She instantly relaxed. Perfect, he thought. Although there was still no way she could recognize him, the mention of a familiar name was enough to put her at ease. If only she knew that he had just come from the Emory University library, where he had spent forty-five minutes poring through her college yearbook. Elizabeth MacKenzie had been a fellow anchor of Darlene's on the campus closed-circuit television broadcasts.

She smiled. “Harry! Of course I remember. How are you?”

Lyles was impressed; the phony bitch was giving a terrific performance. Almost as good as his.

“Great. I own my own software company up in Marietta.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

They chatted for a few minutes, and Lyles tossed out just enough names from the yearbook to completely convince her that he was a long-lost college friend. He even admitted that he'd always thought she was a
much
better broadcaster than his old girlfriend.

The stuck-up bitch was eating it up.

“So,” Darlene finally said, “did you ever get married?”

Bingo.

She was interested. He had no doubt that his looks and charm had swayed her, but he suspected that the competition with her old college coanchor had also played a part.

“Nah,” he replied. “I've just been too busy. I guess you know how that is, huh? I see your reports on the news almost every night.”

She nodded. “No rest for the weary.”

“Hey, would you like to go grab a cup of coffee? There's a Starbucks around the corner.”

Darlene appeared to think about it, but she finally shook her head. “I'm sorry, Harry. I have things at home to take care of. Maybe some other time?”

“No problem. Hey, it was nice talking to you.”

Lyles climbed into his pickup truck and waved to her as he started it. She waved back, and he could see that she wanted to give him her number, her card, or anything else that might ensure another pleasant encounter with this forgotten man from her past.

He backed out of the parking space and drove away.

Before he reached the exit, he saw her struggling to start her car. The starter whined, but the engine refused to roar to life. He turned his truck around and pulled alongside her.

“Engine trouble?”

“Yes. I don't understand it. It was working fine.”

She reached for her cellular phone, pushed the power button, and stared at the display. “Damn. It's not working. I was using it just before I went into the store.”

He flashed her his biggest smile. “Get in. There's a pay phone down the street.”

*   *   *   

Joe pushed past the reporters camped in front of Jesse Randall's one-story project home in Techwood. Located near both the Georgia Tech campus and Coca-Cola's worldwide headquarters, Techwood was known for its low-income housing and vicious gang activity. Despite the bad rap given to it on the evening news almost every night, Joe knew that most of Tech-wood's residents were honest, hardworking people who took pride in their modest homes.

As he walked to the front door, he noticed that one of the news cameramen was getting a shot of a rusted car on blocks across the street.

Sure, Joe thought. Never mind the beautiful flower garden only twenty feet away.

He held up his badge and knocked on the door. There were footsteps and a rustling sound that told him he was being examined through the peephole. Finally the door opened and a slender woman stared at him.

“Ms. Randall?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Detective Bailey, Atlanta P.D. I'd like to talk to you and your son.”

“Why?” she asked sharply.

“May I come in?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Those people on the sidewalk want to come in here too. Why should I treat you any differently?”

“Because I'm a police officer,” he said gently. “And because you want all those people to go away. The sooner I figure out what really happened to Dr. Nelson, the sooner they'll be out of here. But I can't do my job unless you help me.”

She stared at him for a moment, then swung the door open for him to enter.

It was a pleasant, cheery home filled with knick-knacks and an exotic collection of salt and pepper shakers. Cushions were strategically placed over the parts of the furniture that were obviously worn or split, and Joe assumed that the awkwardly positioned area rug covered a stain or hole in the carpet.

He looked at Latisha Randall. She was an attractive woman in her mid-twenties, but it was obvious that the day's events had taken their toll on her. What in her life could have prepared her to be thrust into a situation like this?

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Stupid question. Reporters are camped outside, the phone's been ringing off the hook, and my little boy thinks maybe he killed a man.”

Joe nodded. “Do
you
think your boy killed Dr. Nelson?”

She paused. “How will answering your questions get those people away from us?”

“If I do my job right, they're going to know that your boy isn't responsible. Do you really believe in the shadow storms?”

“I don't know what I think. Jesse has a gift, but how do I know what happens when he's asleep? If his subconscious does take over, that's not his fault, is it?”

“Have you ever seen any of his … phenomena here while he was sleeping?”

“Never. Dr. Nelson started noticing it in his house earlier this week.”

“His girlfriend said that all hell would break loose
after nine o'clock. Dr. Nelson felt that Jesse's disturbing dreams may have been causing it?”

“That's what he said. Jesse
has
been having bad dreams. Since he discovered his gift, he's been afraid people would take him away from me. But it got much worse after Dallas. Dr. Nelson wanted to take him to a psychic research institute in Switzerland. Jesse didn't want to go, and I didn't want him to go either. Jesse was upset with Dr. Nelson. That's a lot of pressure for a little boy to take, you know? He started having terrible nightmares.”

“He's not the first child to have bad dreams.”

Latisha nervously wiped her sweaty hands on her jeans. “Jesse isn't going to be in any trouble, is he?”

Joe shook his head. “I can't imagine how he could be. I'd like to talk to him though. Is he here?”

“He's in his room.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “But if you say one thing to upset him, I'm throwing your ass right out of here.”

She turned and led Joe down a narrow peach-wallpapered hallway. She opened a door and spoke softly. “Jesse, honey, there's someone here to see you.”

Joe couldn't hear a response, but Latisha walked into the room and motioned for him to follow. It was a small bedroom, perhaps eight by ten feet, decorated with rap group posters and an assortment of
Star Wars
models dangling from the ceiling on fishing lines.

Jesse was lying on the twin bed, and Joe was surprised at how small and fragile he seemed. Jesse was
probably average height for an eight-year-old boy, but Joe realized that he had expected someone more theatrical, like so many of the fake psychics he had made it his business to expose. He'd never studied a kid before.

“Hi, Jesse. How are you doing?” He never talked down to children, remembering how much he'd hated adults talking to him as if he were a moron.

Jesse's head didn't rise from the pillow. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Hi.”

“You don't have anything to be afraid of, Jesse. I'm just trying to figure out what happened to Dr. Nelson.”

Jesse turned away. “I don't know what happened.”

“Did you dream about him last night?”

Jesse didn't answer.

Latisha softly rubbed her son's arm. “Honey, it's okay. You can tell him.”

Jesse looked at his mother, then back at Joe. He nodded.

“Were you hurting him in your dream?”

Jesse sat up.
“He
was hurting
me
in my dreams! I was trying to run away, and he kept coming after me. He wasn't just one person…. He was a lot of people. They all had his eyes. He even came up from the ground and tried to pull me under. I kicked him and hit him so he'd let me go.”

“Well, that's what
I
would do to someone who was chasing me. Did you like Dr. Nelson?”

“I used to like him a lot.”

“What happened?”

“He got mad at me.”

“Why?”

Jesse shrugged. “He wanted me to go away to Switzerland so they could study me. I didn't want to go, and he said I was letting my mama down.”

Latisha sat on the bed next to him. “Honey, you never told me that.”

“Jesse, how long had you known Dr. Nelson?”

He wrinkled his brow and looked at his mother.

“About four months,” Latisha said. “When we discovered the things he could do, I called the university. I talked to Dr. Nelson, and I started taking Jesse there for tests a couple of times a week. Jesse and Dr. Nelson spent a lot of time together.”

“Jesse, how did you discover you could do these things?”

The boy looked at his mother again. She nodded her encouragement.

Jesse swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned closer to Joe. “I was visiting my uncle in Ma-con, and my cousin always cheated at checkers. He moved the pieces when I wasn't looking. If I tried to move ‘em back, he'd pound me. I just wanted to move ‘em to where they belonged, and I found out that if I thought about it hard enough, the pieces would move by themselves. Pretty soon, I could make almost anything move by itself.”

“My brother called me from Macon,” Latisha said. “He was so excited that he was almost out of his mind.”

Joe nodded. “I can understand why he would be.” He reached down to the floor, picked up a pair of
Star Wars
action figures, and put them on the night
table. “Do you think you can make Darth Maul and Yoda move for me, Jesse?”

Latisha stiffened. “He doesn't have to do that.”

“Of course he doesn't,” Joe said. “But it would help me understand. You want to give it a try, Jesse?”

Jesse was clearly uncomfortable, but he nodded. He took off his glasses and stared at the figures, taking deep, slow breaths.

The change in Jesse's demeanor was startling. He was suddenly still.

Focused.

Determined.

Where was the eight-year-old boy who was just here?

Joe's glance shifted back and forth between Jesse and the figures.

The boy's eyes opened wide, and then …

Nothing.

No movement.

Maul and Yoda didn't budge.

Jesse slumped. “I'm sorry.”

“Come on, try it again,” Joe said. “I have time.”

Something snapped within Jesse. His expression twisted with anger.
“Don't you do this to me,”
he said, emphasizing each word.

Joe involuntarily stepped back before he could catch himself. Jesus, this was only a kid. Yet Jesse's manner was not that of a child. It was positively chilling.

“Sometimes it just doesn't work,” Latisha said. “Can't you see he's been through enough already today? This is the last thing he needs.”

Joe hadn't taken his eyes off Jesse. The boy was still glaring at him.

“Fine,” Joe said. “I'll come back.”

How could a woman who had appeared so strong, so confident, leave this world in such a pitiful manner?

Lyles watched Darlene Farrell burn in the hastily gathered pile of leaves and branches. He'd made Darlene gather her own funeral pyre, and the woman had cried the entire time, offering him money, influence, and even sex to spare her miserable life.

She should have known better than to hurt Jesse Randall.

Lyles knew that Jesse could have taken care of her himself, just as easily as he had dispatched the professor. But it was his honor to serve the Child of Light.

Are you happy with me, Jesse? Did I serve you well?

Lyles breathed in the tart smell of the roaring, crackling fire.

Burning flesh.

He knew that odor well. He wished he didn't, but there was no erasing the past. He could, however,
atone
for his past, and if he could direct his talents and abilities toward a higher purpose, salvation might be at hand.

He climbed into his truck and drove back to Highway 23, which would take him to I-85 and Atlanta.

He couldn't escape that tart, tangy smell.

Was it on his clothes? It couldn't be; he hadn't been
that
close to the fire. It was always the same: Long after the sights and sounds of his kills had faded, the smells remained. Whenever he smelled freshly cut grass, he thought of the nine dead soldiers in Ireland. Gasoline? The vanload of journalists in Colombia.