The Paladin (3 page)

"The honor is all mine, Miss Philips," he said as he grasped her hand. "I am a big fan of your work."

"This is my cameraman, Ray Goodman."

"It is a pleasure, Mr. Goodman."

"Sup, rich dude," Ray said, extending a fleshy hand.

Beck's smile vanished as he pointedly ignored the offered hand.

Dressed in an expensive Armani suit, punctuated by a tasteful print tie, Beck rolled over to his enormous desk and removed a fat cigar from the humidor. Trimming the ends of a Gurkha, he picked up a box of long wooden matches. Striking one, he held the flame out to Elsa.

"Won't you join me, Miss Phillips? I couldn't help but overhear your desire for a cigarette, and I for one hate to smoke alone."

"I—I can't smoke in your mansion," she protested. "I don't smoke in my house, and it's a dump!"

"Nonsense, I insist," he said. "Here you are, my dear."

Elsa retrieved her cigarette and accepted the light, deeply inhaling the satisfying nicotine fix.

"Thanks, I needed that," she said. "Just don't tell the Surgeon General."

Beck smiled and carefully lit his own cigar."As you can see, my dear," he said between puffs, "the Surgeon General and I don't see eye to eye."

Elsa resumed her seat before the desk while Ray approached Beck, holding a small lapel microphone.

"Dude, if you don't mind," he said, "I need to clip this microphone to your suit."

"Go ahead, son; I don't bite…much."

Beck blew a long plume of smoke as Ray carefully attached the device.

"Tiny little thing, isn't it?" Beck said. "Amazing the doodads they have today. When I was a boy, such things were not even dreamt of."

"Yeah," said Ray, "things have progressed since the caveman days. Care if I try one of your cigars, dude?"

Elsa grimaced as images of throttling Ray danced though her mind.

"Son, those stogies are eight hundred dollars a pop. Touch one and I will have you skinned alive."

"Umm, Mr. Beck, you are remarkably healthy for a man of your age," Elsa interjected, trying to avoid a situation.

Beck smiled. "What did you expect, my dear, a million year old fart with dementia so bad he can barely string two words together?"

Looking into Beck's watery blue eyes, Ray turned beet red.

Beck turned his head to the left, revealing an almost hidden hearing aid.

"Best ears money can buy," he said. "Son, with your lack of both intelligence and respect, how you managed to get this job is a wonder to me. By all rights, you should be living in a cardboard box down on Henry Street. You obviously have a relative in a position of authority at Channel 13."

"Dude, that’s cold—" began Ray.

"Mr. Beck, if we have offended—" Elsa began.

"Don't concern yourself, Miss Phillips," he said with a smile. "If our roles were reversed, I would have thought the same thing. By the way, Mr. Goodman, you will
never
call me ‘dude’ again. You understand me, boy?"

"Yes, sir…sorry, sir," Ray said, as he quickly returned to the safety of his camera.

While Elsa enjoyed Ray's long overdue comeuppance, she gathered her questions and took stock of the withered, yet surprisingly lively John Beck sitting before her. While the passage of time had taken its toll on his body, his mind was still razor-sharp. Beck was warm and gracious, yet Elsa glimpsed the hard edge lurking just below the surface, and it intrigued her.

"We are rolling," said Ray, centering his view screen.

"Don't film me smoking, you idiot," she said. "All I need is to be crucified for being a bad role model. Besides, last month we did a benefit for the East Tennessee Lung Association."

"Relax, Elsa, we can edit it out later," Ray said, "when we add the intro."

"You had better," she said taking one last drag.

"Nothing wrong with being human and having a vice or two, my dear," Beck said. "Doing nothing but the right thing makes one bland. I have found over the years that it is our flaws that make us interesting."

"Really," said Elsa as she crushed out her cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray. "I find that interesting coming from the Angel of Bryson City."

"I assure you, I did not choose that moniker for myself."

"Given your more than generous contributions to Bryson City over the years, I would say it is appropriate. Your generosity has built the local hospital, three schools, and several churches. Not to mention the countless civic programs you have raised money for."

"I was just trying to be a good Christian and do what I thought the Lord would want. This town has suffered many tragedies over the years and I was in a position to help."

"Speaking of tragedy…" she began.

"Stop right there. I know where this is going, Miss Phillips, and I make it a rule not to discuss that night."

"I realize that, Mr. Beck. However, you are the last living witness to the events that occurred at the Good Hope Methodist Church. All the information we have today about the Butcher of Bryson City are wild tales exaggerated with time. Some doubt that it even happened at all. This is an opportunity to set the record straight."

Beck glared at Elsa for a moment. She could see his jaw clench as an internal struggle took place within his decaying body.

"Oh, it happened all right," he said softly, as he casually rested a hand on his wheelchair. "You can trust me on that."

"Please, Mr. Beck. What happened on that night in 1940?"

Beck drew on his cigar and thought a moment.

"It was Thursday, October 24th. I remember thinking at the time what a sparkling fall day it was. Funny what sticks out in a man's mind."

While outwardly she maintained an air of calm, internally, Elsa was leaping for joy.

After nearly seventy years of silence, John Beck was at last telling what occurred on October 24
1940. More importantly, he was telling it to
her
.

"I got word that Preacher Cole had called a meeting at the church for six o’clock that evening. He said that it concerned the terror that had descended on our fair community."

"Church?" asked Elsa. "You mean the Good Hope?"

"Yes," said Beck. "Some ‘good hope’ it was."

"Before we get into the incident, what was your impression of Silas Cole?"

John Beck shifted in his wheelchair.

"You see, Miss Philips—"

"Please, call me Elsa."

"Elsa it is," he said. "Silas Cole had a way of leaving a lasting impression, no pun intended. He was a mountain of a man, broad shoulders, well over six feet. He had these piercing blue eyes and sported a great big cookie duster—"

"Cookie duster?"

"Sorry, I guess my age is showing," Beck said with a smile. "A cookie duster is an archaic term for mustache.

"Cole had a commanding presence, but once he spoke…well; there was a gentle quality about him that would put you at ease. In other words, the brute was very affable."

"Setting you up for the kill you mean?"

"Umm, yes, that's it. Nicely phrased, my dear."

Elsa smiled.

"I always knew he was a man of godly virtue and strong character, but he never struck me as being particularly clever. Live and learn I guess." Beck snorted.

"I always prided myself on being a good judge of character, but that devil sure pulled the wool over my eyes. He ruined everything; made me look like a fool!"

"I don't understand," she said.

Beck gave her a sharp look. "It was a trying time. I mean, with all the disappearances."

"I understand they were all women."

"Ah, yes, and most were with child."

"I did not know that," she said. "That's terrible!"

"Anyway, the Good Hope was filled to capacity, which was about a hundred or so. Most were the relatives of the missing women. I got there early and took a seat in the front row, right in front of the pulpit. Lord help me, what was I thinking?"

"How could you have known what was about to happen?" she asked.

"I never did see it coming, that's for sure," he said pouring himself a glass of water. With shaking hands, Beck downed the water then wiped his thin lips with a handkerchief.

"Cole came in after the church was full. I remember instead of his bible, he toted this big, ratty looking carpetbag. He took his place behind the pulpit and the congregation went silent."

"What did he say?"

"Didn't get a chance to say anything. I looked up and saw a reddish wet spot spreading cross the ceiling. I stood and pointed it out. Couple of fellows—not sure who—ran up the stairs to the attic."

Beck took another drink of water.

"After a few minutes, one of them came back, white-faced, like he had seen a ghost. Said all the missing women were up there, dead, hanging from the rafters like sides of beef in a slaughterhouse."

"What happened then?" asked Ray.

Elsa turned and gave her cameraman a murderous look.

"Outraged, I stood and accused the preacher of murder," said Beck. "Cole was as good as dead; he was trapped; the only way out was through a mob screaming for his head. I figured they would string him up on the spot. To be honest, I wanted to string him up on the spot.

"Never saw it coming, never in a million years did I imagine he was capable of something like that." Beck rubbed his face hard. "The self-righteous bastard was prepared. Looked me dead in the eye, he did. Everything seemed to slow way down, like slow motion in a movie. Silas pulled a big hand cannon from his bag…I tried to run, but I was too close, hemmed in by the crowd."

Elsa watched as a single tear escaped and slowly made its way down Beck's sunken cheek.

"Five times he pulled the trigger…five times, I felt the impact as those slugs tore me apart. Tore my life apart. Those wild blue eyes above that gun barrel still give me nightmares.

Oh, God it hurt like hell! I took one in the right shoulder, two in the chest, and one shattered my collarbone, but that was nothing…the fifth…the fifth severed my spine…took my legs. Damn him to Hell!"

Beck paused and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.

"Mr. Beck," she asked. "What happened to Silas Cole?"

"He ran past me while I lay broken and bleeding on the dirty floor. With him waving the gun around, the congregation parted like Red Sea before Moses. Cole, bag in hand, ran unmolested, right out the front door.

Somewhere, somehow that night, he met up with my dear Celeste. He still has her…I just know it. I have to find her before it is too late for me."

"Excuse me?" asked Elsa. "You think your wife is still alive?"

Beck gave the camera a momentary deer-caught-in-the-headlight look. He wiped his mouth and composed himself.

"Wishful thinking on my part," he said, smiling ever so slightly. "Neither Cole or my beloved Celeste were ever seen or heard from again. You must understand, Elsa. We were two of a kind; soul mates if you will. She made me immortal. Her body was never found, and after nearly seventy years, I still grasp at straws. By the way, that is her portrait over the mantle."

"She was very beautiful," said Elsa.

"It doesn't do her justice. Elsa, I would give all I own to have her back for a single day. I guess you think I am just a silly old man hanging onto the past."

"Not at all," Elsa said. "Your love and devotion is, well…it's beautiful."

"To make a long story short," said Beck. "After the bodies of their loved ones were recovered, the mob burned the Good Hope to the ground. To this day, as you well know, no church in town has ever been called Good Hope again.

"Bryson City opened its arms to me in my time of need and made me one of her own. I am not an angel, Elsa, merely a sinner trying to repay the kindness I have been shown."

An ancient black phone on the desk began to ring, its loud sound making Elsa jump in spite of herself.

Beck looked at the phone in disbelief and wiped his lips with his handkerchief. After a few moments, he swallowed hard and reached for the phone.

"Excuse me," he said as he lifted the receiver to his ear, "I must take this."

Beck knew who the caller was, as only one person had the number to that particular phone.

Elsa motioned for Ray to cease recording.

"Beck, if you ever want to see your beloved Celeste again, we must act now. Our time is at hand," the female voice said before the line went dead.

His heart racing with excitement, John Beck returned the oversized receiver to its cradle.

"I'm sorry, Miss Philips, something important has come up. Now, if you and your Neanderthal will excuse me, this interview is over."

2

The white S65 AMG Mercedes pulled into the parking lot of the Christ Redeeming Apostolic First Church of Prophecy.

It was Saturday and the church parking lot was empty save for two vehicles. Parked near the door, was a 1988 Tercel that at one time might have been red, but had been bleached to pink by the harsh Tennessee sun. A brand new blue Cadillac Escalade took up a prime spot near the door. A sign before the big SUV read:
Reserved for Pastor Mills.

Harold White parked the Mercedes next to the Toyota.

"I will never understand how anyone could call this warehouse a church," said Dana Kirby from the back seat.

"It has a unique charm," said Mr. White. "Personally, I like the artwork."

"In any case, this eyesore will soon be history when the new building is finished," she said.

The Christ Redeeming Apostolic First Church of Prophecy was a single story metal building that in an effort to erase its former past as an auto parts store, had been painted sky blue, complete with white fluffy clouds.

Rising behind the whimsically painted building stood the almost completed new sanctuary. Easily five times the size of its predecessor, complete with stained glass windows and a soaring spire topped with a golden cross, it conformed to what one would think of as a proper church.

Mr. White switched off the purring engine and exited the car. The powerfully built six-foot man causally scanned the parking lot while he buttoned his tailored jacket. He smiled at a faded sticker peeling from a rear of the Toyota's window.