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 241940. 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
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 241940. 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
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