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  Beyond the Mask

  by Mark Phillips

  Copyright 2014 by Mark Phillips

  Smashwords Edition

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For Jessey Ann Gohl

  My number one fan

  If you have to break my ankles with a sledge hammer,

  at least sing me soft kitty

  One

  Frank Miles stood in the center of the room. He supposed it was some sort of conference room-something that the doctors used to inform family members when their loved-ones had died. Died in the mental hospital, never getting out.

  That was supposed to be Bentley, Frank thought.

  There was a long table covered with a black sheet at one end of the room. Five doctors sat behind the table, but the only one that mattered was Jenkins. He was the one sitting in the middle; he was the one in charge.

  A bar of light had found its way through the blinds and shone on the carpeted floor. It lay right in front of Frank, almost like the tape they put down on a stage during a play so the actors would know their marks.

  “We understand your objections,” Jenkins said. There was a large smile on his face, but it never touched his eyes. Those remained cold and gray, assessing Frank.

  “You don’t understand shit,” Frank said. His voice was slurred; he sounded like someone who had just suffered from a stroke.

  The metal box was gone (and with it the mechanical voice) and that was good, but his speech therapy could only go so far. Frank would never sound like a normal human being again.

  “If you understood things, you wouldn’t be doing this,” Frank said.

  “With all due respect,” Jenkins said. “We know what you went through at the hands of Mr. Grimes and we understand that you’re upset, but you are not a doctor.”

  “What about Abrams?” Frank asked. “He was a doctor. Did he understand? Oh, I forgot, he’s gone isn’t he?”

  Jenkins’s eyes slitted to a thin bar of gray and his mouth tightened. “Dr. Abrams is none of our concern.”

  Frank knew what Abrams was up to. For personal reasons, he had followed the man’s career. Bestselling book, lecture tour, private practice. He had it all; everything that he ever could have wanted. That’s why it was such a shock to the world when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Frank hadn’t been surprised. Your conscious had a way of catching up to you. If you had one that was.

  One of the younger doctors spoke up. He was a small man with what looked like about two pounds of kinky red hair on top of his head.

  “We have been treating Mr. Grimes for the past ten years and our decision was not arrived at lightly.”

  Frank turned his attention to the young doctor. “Mr. Grimes (because of his speech impediment Grimes came out sounding like rhymes) is a violent murderer. You are putting people’s lives at risk.” Frank stabbed his finger at the doctor. “And after he kills his next victim I will be back here to shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll taste shoe polish.”

  The color fell from the young doctor’s face; he opened his mouth to speak, but Jenkins overrode him.

  “It is the decision of this hospital that Mr. Grimes was not suffering from psychosis as was originally thought.”

  “As was originally lied about,” Frank said.

  Jenkins took no notice of this and continued. “He was suffering from violent sociopathy. Now it’s a rare occurance, but sometimes with the proper therapy and medication an individual can overcome this disorder.”

  “So he’s cured?” Frank asked. It was not a serious question, but Jenkins answered it anyway.

  “Of course not,” Jenkins said. “He is never going to experience the world the way you or I do. What has happened is that he’s begun to acknowledge the need to respect other people and the rule of law. He understands that what he did was wrong. He has started to develop a moral compass for lack of a better word.”

  Jenkins gave another one of his shitty little smiles and all of a sudden Frank no longer wanted to be there. Driving down had been a mistake. The whole thing had been a mistake. They had made up their mind and there was nothing he was going to do to change it.

  What would have been better is if he had found a way to smuggle his gun inside the hospital the one time he had visited Bentley. Smuggled it in and used it to blow the mother fucker’s brains out. But that hadn’t happened and this was the reality that Frank was left to deal with.

  “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” Frank said. “I see now that listening to reason is not something you’re willing to do.”

  Frank turned and headed for the door, but before he got there, he turned around and assessed the group sitting behind their table.

  “I meant what I said though. When Bentley kills again, and he will kill again, I’ll be back and I will hold all of you personally responsible.”

  Two

  Blackness covered the landscape. Sheila hadn’t been hard to find. After all, what did she have to hide from? Her own personal boogie-man was locked up.

  HE watched as she sat on the couch and talked on her cell phone. There was a smile on her face and she laughed several times.

  Was it Katie she was talking to? Maybe, maybe not. It didn’t really matter. She was what mattered. If there was going to be a first, it was going to be her. Katie could wait for later.

  HE crouched low by the window and she didn’t see him. Maybe her guard had been up once, but it was clearly down now.

  Sheila put the phone down on the table next to her couch and stood up. She walked to the kitchen. She was wearing a pink robe and she had a little sway to her walk. The years had been kind to her and her backside undulated with a wild curvasiouness that was very appealing.

  Time was a factor, so he rose from his crouch and tried the front door. Locked. That was okay though, he had planned for this.

  A single gold key. It was all he needed. If the door had been newer or the lock more complicated, he might have had to resort to another method, but, as it stood, he knew it would work.

  HE inserted the key into the lock and then pulled out a hammer. HE tapped three times, driving the key into the hole. HE turned the key and the latch let go with a smooth click.

  As he slipped into the house, Sheila was coming back towards the couch. Her eyes happened on him and the widened. Her mouth dropped open and a scream ripped out.

  HE rushed forward and grabbed her as she stood screaming. One gloved hand covered her mouth. HE could feel teeth, but knew they would do no good. The gloves were good; they were up to the task.

  HE pulled out his knife and Sheila saw it. She began to buck and kick. She was still screaming and although the glove was muffling it, she was making too much noise.

  With a grunt of disappointment, he slashed across her throat and watched as the blood poured out of her body. HE looked into her eyes and saw his own reflection. Then they dimmed and there was nothing there, nothing but empty points of color.

  It had been too quick, but the next time would be better. The next time would be perfect.

  Three

  I.

  Frank had arrived at the bar shortly after his fruitless conversation with Jenkins. This meant he had been there for almost two hours by the time the ghost walked in. Two hours was long enough to wonder if he was just that drunk, or if he was really seeing what he thought he was.
>
  “Hello, detective Miles,” Bentley said. He took a seat next to Frank. Time had changed his face-deepened it in that way that time has-but for the most part he looked the same. Except for the hair, of course. He had some now. It was brown and slightly wavy. The fucking kid even had a smile on his face.

  Frank spun on the bar stool and grabbed Bentley by the shirt. His normally slurred speech was further hampered by several drinks. “et da fuuu awe from ma!”

  Bentley stumbled back with his hands held out in front of him. “I know you hate me and I understand why. I don’t blame you.”

  Frank stood up and staggered towards Bentley. “You don’t blame me?” Frank gestured to himself with the hand that was still holding his drink. Whiskey splashed on his shirt and peppered the ground. “You don’t blame me? That’s a fucking joke is what that is?”

  “We got a problem?” The bartender asked.

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “This fucking guy is a murderer.”

  “I don’t want any problems,” Bentley said.

  “Well you got problems,” Frank said.

  Frank felt a hand on his upper arm. He turned as saw a huge black man. He was wearing a tight, black shirt and his chest and arms seemed to be trying to rip their way out. The bicep on the arm holding Frank looked like a snake that had just swallowed a goat.

  “Why don’t you take it outside,” the black man suggested. “I think you’ve had enough anyway.”

  Frank used his free hand to go into his pocket. The bouncer saw the movement and his grip tightened.

  “Ease up,” Frank said. “I’m a cop.” He pulled his wallet out and held it up to the bouncer. A flap fell open and a gold star shone out in the dimness of the bar.

  “Sheriff Frank Miles,” the bouncer read. “This guy really a murderer?”

  “Yes,” Frank said.

  The bouncer released his grip and moved towards Bentley.

  Bentley backed a few steps, but did not leave the bar. “I’ve paid for my crimes,” Bentley said. “Tell him, Frank. If I were a wanted man you’d be arresting me instead of just yelling at me.”

  The bouncer stood between the two of them, seemingly unsure what to do. Then he turned towards the bartender. “What you want me to do?”

  “Leave ‘em alone, Eugene,” the bartender said. Then he turned his attention to Bentley and Frank. “But if you two can’t have your conversation quietly, then you’re going to have to leave.”

  “We’ll be quiet,” Bentley said.

  Frank started for the door. “I don’t want to have a conversation with anyone.”

  “Frank, please. I need to talk to you,” Bentley said. Need shone in his eyes.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you want.” Frank stepped through the door and felt the cool night air on his face.

  He closed his eyes and turned his head towards the sky as if in prayer. This short respite was interrupted by a voice behind him.

  “Frank, you didn’t pay your bill and they want you to come back. Plus, I do really need to talk to you. I’m…I’m lost, Frank.”

  Bentley stood a few feet from him. Frank didn’t have his gun (a smart move when you were planning on getting shitfaced) but that didn’t stop him from reaching into his sport coat where it would normally be.

  He sighed when his hand came in contact with his empty holster. “Leave me the fuck alone! You won. You got what you wanted. No prison, no anal rape, just arts and crafts. And now you’re out. A free fucking man.”

  “I know that you think I tricked them. That I somehow convinced them that I’m all better, but I didn’t Frank. They think I’m better because I am actually better and I need to talk to you. I need to…” Bentley trailed off. His face contorted as he seemed to grope for the words. “I need to make amends Frank. I need to apologize to you.”

  Frank started forward and then stumbled. The ground swelled in his vision and then something blotted it out. It was a pair of arms-Bentley’s arms. He grabbed Frank and kept him from tasting the loose gravel that made up the parking lot of the bar.

  After he was back on his feet, Frank gaped at the kid standing in front of him. “I don’t care what you have to say. Do you think there’s anything you could do or say to me that would change the fact that I have to talk like this for the rest of my life?”

  Bentley said nothing, he continued to stare.

  “What about Karen? You remember her. The little girl that you killed.”

  Bentley actually winced. It was a small thing, just a little twinge of the muscles in his cheeks, but it unfurled a ball of fury that had been building in Frank’s stomach since the kid had walked through the door.

  Frank launched himself at Bentley, the kid didn’t even move. He just stood there and let Frank collide with him. Their weight combined, shifted their center of gravity and they both fell to the pebbles. Sharp edges cut into Frank’s left palm as he used it to hoist himself up and begin punching Bentley.

  Small twitches in the arm muscles, but Bentley’s hands never came up; he never made a move to fight back or to protect his face. Blow after blow landed, each one bringing a sting up Frank’s arm, but he barely felt it. He was too focused on the task at hand.

  Blood spurted from Bentley’s nose, his lips pulled back as the punches continued and the white teeth were stained with blood from his mouth.

  Frank drove his knee into Bentley’s side and the kid let out a grunt of pain. It was the first indication that anything was having an effect on him. So, Frank drove his knee into the kid’s side four more times, harder each time.

  Bentley doubled up after the last blow and started to turn to his side. The kid was crying now and, after a second, Frank realized that he was crying as well. Also, that he had been screaming.

  He looked up and saw the bartender and Eugene the bouncer. They were staring at the scene. Eugene filling the double doorway of the bar, the bartender looking like a child next to his hired man.

  “This is none of your business!” Frank shouted at them. “Go back inside and let me kill him.”

  “That tab is my business,” the bartender said. His eyes were huge and confused.

  Eugene was calmer. “Ain’t killing no kid on the bar’s property. I don’t care if you is a cop.”

  Bentley shimmed out from underneath Frank and found his feet.

  “Don’t worry; Frank’s not going to kill me. He’s a good guy. Aren’t you Frank?” Bentley extended a hand to Frank. A gesture meant to help him to his feet.

  Frank slapped the hand away and felt more jagged rocks cut into his skin as he pushed himself up to a standing position. He looked down at his hands and saw a few trickles of blood and the imprint of all those rocks on his skin.

  “Not going to kill him,” Frank panted. “I’ll be in to pay in a minute.”

  Eugene turned around and walked back inside. The bartender lingered a minute longer, seemed about to say something, then he turned and followed his bouncer back inside.

  “I know that you needed to do that,” Bentley said. “I know that you probably need to do so much more, but I hope that you’ll listen to me.”

  “Why me?” Frank cried. “Why the hell are you here talking to me?”

  “Do you think Katie would even let me get close to her? What about Sheila? Besides I assumed that you’d have cops around wherever they’re living now. To protect them.”

  Frank looked at Bentley. He had the old lilt in his voice, the old arrogant look in his eyes. It was a sight that Frank thought about a lot over the years. Here it was for a command performance.

  The hell of it was that Frank had intended to order protective detail to Sheila. Only he had come to the bar and somewhere between whiskey three and four it had slipped his mind.

  “Katie moved out of California,” Frank said. “After the trial she went off to college and stayed in…” Frank caught himself.

  “I am curious,” Bentley said and smiled.

  The fucking kid had the gall to smile at him. The only thing th
at kept Frank from launching into another attack was the red, smeared in that smile.

  “You were curious once too, Frank. But it doesn’t matter now. I’ve gotten used to disappointment. I’ve had to get used to a lot of things.”

  “If you came here looking for information on them, you’re not going to get it,” Frank said.

  “You’ve already given me some,” Bentley replied. It was definitely the old arrogance. “Sheila still lives here, probably in the County, since you’re the County Sheriff. Katie lives in whatever state she went to college. That wouldn’t be hard to find out.”

  “If you touch them,” Frank said. He started forward, although moving made his head scream out in pain.

  Bentley took a step back. “I assure you I have no intention of hurting either of them. Eventually, I’d like to talk to them if they will ever hear me out, but I have no desire to harm them.”

  “Where’s your bridge?” Frank asked.

  “What?”

  “The one you’re selling.”

  Bentley laughed. “Okay, you don’t believe me. That’s fine, but can we go inside and talk. Please, I need it.”

  “I don’t need it,” Frank said and walked passed Bentley and into the bar.

  He hadn’t even reached the bar stool when Bentley spoke from behind him.

  “If you listen to me and don’t believe me, I’ll confess to another murder.”

  Frank stopped and turned to look at the kid. He was standing there with that shit-eating grin on his face.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t be tried again for the murders you know about. The ones in Chicago and Philadelphia and California, but remember I told you there were two you didn’t know about. One where the police never found the bodies.”

  Frank did remember. That final conversation with Bentley had returned to his mind again and again. Final conversation until now, anyway.

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You don’t have to,” Bentley said. “But could you really pass up the opportunity to put me in jail? I was never tried for those murders. No one even knows they happened. Just give me a couple hours of your time. If you still don’t believe that I’ve started to change, then I will tell you where to find the bodies. I’ll confess to the murders and…” Bentley spread his hands out as if to say the rest was elementary.