Copyright © 2012 Robert W. Stephens
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1470091364
ISBN 13: 9781470091361
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62110-458-2
For
Felicia Dames
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: The Murder of Bianca Rossi
CHAPTER 2: The Serpent
CHAPTER 3: The Death of David Carter
CHAPTER 4: Nothing Has Changed
CHAPTER 5: The Corruption of Eva Parks
CHAPTER 6: Pale Eyes
CHAPTER 7: The Woman Without A Face
CHAPTER 8: The Boy in the Woods
CHAPTER 9: I Can’t Make Him Stop
CHAPTER 10: The Voice in the Dark
CHAPTER 11: The Language of Christ
CHAPTER 12: The Ring
CHAPTER 13: The Problem of Suffering
CHAPTER 14: Pieces of Flesh
CHAPTER 15: He Likes to Hurt Women
CHAPTER 16: Bob Ingalls
CHAPTER 17: The Rats
CHAPTER 18: The Trap
CHAPTER 19: The Interrogation
CHAPTER 20: Woman of the Light
CHAPTER 21: A Creature Like Me
CHAPTER 22: Unbearable Grief
CHAPTER 23: Sins of the Father
CHAPTER 24: Comfort
CHAPTER 25: The Mannequins in the Woods
CHAPTER 26: Nightmares
CHAPTER 27: Murder in Florence
CHAPTER 28: The Theft of David Carter
CHAPTER 29: Memories
CHAPTER 30: Eyes Like Fire
CHAPTER 31: Everything Has Changed
CHAPTER 32: The Strange Fate of Frank Carter
CHAPTER 33: MAI
CHAPTER 34: Find Me
CHAPTER 35: The Trunk in the Closet
CHAPTER 36: Charlie Darden’s Pain
CHAPTER 37: The Cabin in the Woods
CHAPTER 38: The Test
CHAPTER 39: The Revelation
CHAPTER 40: I Am Despair
CHAPTER 41: Always With You
CHAPTER 1
The Murder of Bianca Rossi
Journal Entry: Rome, September 13, 1948
“The loneliness must be unbearable,” I heard the voice say as I drifted into sleep.
I thought it was the beginning of a dream.
I was wrong.
Journal Entry: Rome, September 14, 1948
I saw her standing at the edge of the river. The sun was low in the sky, and its rays were lighting the back of her dark hair, making it almost glow. She looked like an angel in an old Renaissance oil painting.
I knew her name was Bianca Rossi. A few of my associates had used her services before. I assumed she would expect that I would want the same. But I am not attracted to women; nor am I attracted to men, or God forbid children. The desire for the physical simply doesn’t exist in me.
I wanted to talk to her, though. There was something about the way she looked and carried herself that projected an aura of innocence, despite what she did to earn money.
She heard me as I approached her, and when she saw my clothing her smile faded. I knew with all certainty what she was thinking. I tried to tell her I wasn’t interested in that. I’m not sure she believed me, and I can understand why. There is such a despair of the soul when you realize your heroes have fallen.
We spoke for several minutes. The conversation was filled with insignificant things, but it was a pleasant one, and I tried to reassure her of my intentions with a smile. I asked her if I could walk her home, and after a brief moment of hesitation, she said yes.
We continued our talk while we walked, and I learned her father had died several years ago, but her mother and younger brother were still alive. She lived with them both, and they struggled to make a living. It became clear to me why she did what she did. We all judge too quickly and often unfairly, whether we think we do or not.
At some point, we passed a deserted alley, and I found myself pulling her off the main road and into the dark corners. I don’t know what made me do this. The impulse was uncontrollable, and I felt strangely detached from my actions. I assume you don’t believe me, and you may be tempted to think this was my plan all along. It wasn’t, though.
I pushed her against the wall and pinned here there with the weight of my body. I covered her mouth with my hand and looked into her eyes. They weren’t filled with terror, as I expected them to be, but rather sadness, as if she had been expecting this attack all along and knew there was nothing she could do to stop it.
I found a fist-sized stone at our feet and smashed her across the head with it. Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped to the ground. I didn’t know whether she was dead, nor did I know why I had taken it so far so quickly. I actually didn’t feel anything during my sudden act of violence. I was outside my body in a strange way, watching things unfold with a complete lack of interest. What had made me do this?
I kneeled beside her body and hit her across the face with the stone. I did this several more times until I couldn’t make out the details of her face anymore. Bianca was a complete stranger now, a woman with no face and no identity.
I stood up and looked at her body lying motionless on the smooth stones of the alley. There was no doubt now that she was gone from this life.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I may have been seen. I faced the entrance to the alley, but there wasn’t anyone there. I listened intently, but there was no noise of any kind, nothing even in the distance. It was as if the entire world melted away so I could do what must be done.
I turned one last time to the woman. Blood pooled beside her head, and the dark hair that once glowed with sunlight now soaked up the red liquid.
I closed my eyes and pushed my feelings outward. Did I sense her soul there with me? Could I feel it slipping away? Was there anything alive in that alley other than me?
I felt nothing, as I always did.
I tucked the stone, now covered with her blood and pieces of her flesh and hair, under my thin jacket and hurried away.
I don’t remember consciously deciding to do this, but I returned to the spot beside the river where I had initially seen her. I tossed the stone into the water and watched it sink away. The current would no doubt wash the blood and flesh from the stone. More traces of her existence would be gone.
I headed for home, wondering how I would feel in the morning. Would I regret what I had done? Would I confess my crime?
I walked the path that I had done a thousand times before. I didn’t feel any different than I had the day before, just a slight sense of detachment from the world. Eventually I saw Saint Peter’s in the distance. The sun was setting now, and the dome glowed like it was on fire.
CHAPTER 2
The Serpent
Present Day.
Marcus Carter was beyond freezing. He could no longer control his hands. They were shaking like crazy and he couldn’t make them stop, no matter how hard he concentrated. It was unsettling to realize he had lost control over his body. His fitness and will power was no match for this stinging cold. He was forty years old and tremendously strong, but right now he had never felt more weak and vulnerable.
He looked down and saw the snow turn red one droplet at a time. The agony in his side came flooding back. He cursed himself for having been too slow. He had known the moment could happen at any time. It was unavoidable. A small part of him had actually looked forward to it. It would no doubt define him. It would be him against them, him against the possibility of death. From the beginning, he knew he would be prepared. He wouldn’t be afraid to fight, and no one would be stronger than him. No one would outsmart him or out hustle him or have more desire to win the private war between two combatants.
But whe
n the time finally arrived he had been a split second too slow, too slow to pull his weapon, too slow to take aim, too slow to pull the trigger. One second, maybe just half a second, was the only difference between winning and utter defeat.
And he had lost.
The fresh snow covered his ankles and fell over the tops of his shoes, drenching his socks and turning his feet numb. He wasn’t wearing a coat. Had he left it in the car? Where was his car? How did he get out here in the middle of nowhere? His consciousness was beginning to fade.
The thick clouds rolled in, and it began to snow softly again. It covered his hair, and he began to shake even harder. How could he possibly get any colder than he was now? At this rate, he wouldn’t last long.
He looked across the field and saw a lone figure walking towards him. The figure was dressed in black, and the dark shape stood out against the snowy background. It looked like a woman’s frame, small and delicate. But from this distance he couldn’t make out the details of her face. Something seemed familiar, though, about the way she moved. He had seen that walk before, maybe dozens of times. But his mind was slowing, and he couldn’t bring her identity forth.
Then he heard the laughter. It was a woman. The voice left no mistake. The laughter echoed across the surface of the snow and made it sound as if the woman was all around him, shouting in his ear, mocking him. She knew he was about to die, and she delighted in that knowledge. She had made the journey here to watch him pass away. He was helpless to make her stop laughing. He could do nothing. The pain in his side grew worse. The pool of blood at his feet expanded.
The woman’s laughter got louder and louder.
And then he woke.
The dream was always the same. Freezing and hurt and lost and frightened. He was always too slow in the dream, always unprepared. And he always stood at the edge of death right before he woke. Did it mean something? Was it a warning that the moment was near?
Marcus rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was after four a.m. He would need to get up soon. He looked outside his bedroom window and saw the snow gently fall to the ground. God, it was snowing again. It was bad enough to deal with the cold. Now he had to deal with the snow and all the hassles that came with it.
He was not one who delighted in the beauty of it. It was an inconvenience, more like a major pain in the ass. They were only half way through December, and this was already the fourth time it had snowed; Not unusual for some parts of the country, but rare for Southeast Virginia.
The bed sheet and blanket were on the floor near the foot of the bed. He must have kicked them off while he slept. His wife had once told him he was a restless sleeper, always tossing and turning and throwing the covers around.
Marcus climbed out of the bed to fetch the blanket. That’s when he heard the woman’s laughter again, but this time he was clearly awake. What the hell was going on? It was coming from the front room. Of that much he was sure.
He grabbed his gun off the nightstand and headed into the hallway. He was barefoot, and his footsteps on the carpet left zero sound. He held the gun low with both hands. He flipped off the safety and placed his finger gently over the trigger. His arms were tense, and he was prepared to raise and fire the weapon at any second. He would not be late in real life.
As he entered the sparsely furnished den, the laughter abruptly stopped. He looked around the room. It was dark except for several thin shafts of light that snuck past the window blinds and into the room from the flickering orange street lamp outside.
Marcus noticed a thin leather journal on the coffee table in front of the sofa. It had not been there when he went to bed, and he didn’t know whom it belonged to. Suddenly the cover of the book flung open and the pages began to flip by themselves. The turning pages sounded like large insect wings buzzing in his ears.
“Marcus,” the woman’s voice said from behind him.
Marcus raised his weapon and spun in the direction of the voice that had just called his name. He saw the woman in the hallway. How had he not seen her before? Her face was in the shadows, but he could tell she was wearing a thin, black dress. Her frame was small and delicate and perfectly matched the woman in his dream.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
She stepped closer to him, and one of the shafts of light from the window caught her face.
My God, he knew this woman.
Her name was Leah Grey.
“Leah?”
“Mar…”
Leah tried to say his name again. But something seemed to seize her vocal chords, and she couldn’t get all of the letters of his name out of her mouth.
Leah held her hands up to her throat. She was choking on something.
“Mar…”
Leah’s body violently jerked as some terrible pain tore at her insides. She began to gag. Her neck expanded grotesquely as a large, fat object made its way up her throat. Marcus looked on in horror as Leah’s lips parted and a slimy black hose came out of her mouth. As the object grew larger and longer, Marcus realized it wasn’t a hose. It was the diamond-shaped head of a snake.
“The snake…what do you think is the significance of the snake?” Dr. Peter Bachman asked her. Bachman was in his late sixties, with a thick head of gray hair. He was slim and his eyes seemed to have the power to look through your skin and see deep into your inner thoughts. Or at least that’s the way he made Angela feel.
“The symbol is obvious,” Angela replied. “Isn’t it? The serpent in the Garden, the classic symbol of good versus evil.”
Angela Darden was thirty-five years old, one of the few women working the homicide division. She was beautiful, but perhaps that wasn’t a strong enough word to describe her physicality. She was downright stunning. Nevertheless, her looks were far from her top priority. Yes, she cared how she looked. Everyone did, but it wasn’t important to the end game. She wasn’t going to screw her way to success.
She wasn’t naive though. She knew female police were always given a rough time, always judged by different standards, always gawked at by the guys who only thought with their cocks. But she didn’t care. She lived by her own standards, her own code. If she satisfied that code, then that was all that mattered. She had no time for the bullshit of office politics. It didn’t matter if there was a career ladder to climb. She would simply push it down and crash through the walls to get to her ultimate goal. She wanted to help people. That’s all that really meant anything to her. If there was a wrong, she would move the world to make things right. And if someone got in her way, they would learn how dangerous she could be.
“Was the snake there at the beginning?” Dr. Bachman asked.
Why was he so obsessed with those damn snakes? Angela wondered. Yes, the snakes were there at the beginning. Yes, they disgusted her. Yes, she hated the damn slimy things like every other rational human being.
She looked across the table to Dr. Bachman. His face showed no emotion. He was always so damn calm. She envied that skill in him but also hated him for it at the same time.
She nodded. Yes, the snake was there at the beginning.
She turned from Dr. Bachman and looked out the window. She would often seem to get lost looking outside this window, like the world on the other side of the glass was an entirely different place than the one in this room. If only she could be out there. If only she could simply stand up and walk away and never have to think or talk or analyze those god damn snakes ever again.
But the snakes weren’t the worse things she had seen. There was far worse in the world and in her memories. If only she could forget. But she knew that would never happen. It couldn’t. It was a physical impossibility, like the sun growing cold tomorrow. Once something was seared into your brain, it would never go away. Only death could make the terror vanish.
Finally she spoke.
“The girls’ missing faces. I had never seen anything like it.”
“What was Marcus’s first reaction?”
“What do you think
his reaction was? My God, do you think he hopped and skipped around for joy?”
“Of course I don’t think that. But I want to know what his reaction was. Was he scared? Was he angry? Was he nervous?”
“Marcus can’t hide his feelings. He’s an open book.”
“That’s not what others have told me,” Dr. Bachman said.
“What others?”
Angela looked at him, accusation in her eyes. Who had Bachman been talking to?
“Just people in the department,” Dr. Bachman said. “People say he’s hard to read. He’s a mystery to them.”
“Not to me,” she said.
“So what was his reaction when he first saw the victims?”
“He was furious. Furious that someone could butcher another human being like that,” Angela said.
Dr. Bachman hesitated. Obviously he was formulating the next question in his mind. But he had already asked her these same questions, over and over and over again. She knew the technique. She had used it herself during countless interrogations with the lying scum of the earth. Ask and ask and ask. The same questions over and over again. Sooner or later the person would get sloppy and trip up and a slither of the real truth would emerge. You had to pay close attention or you would miss it though. But if you caught it, the entire case would reveal itself before your very eyes. The game would be over. Checkmate.
Dr. Bachman was trying to wear her down, make her tired, make her lazy, hoping she would slip and an inconsistent answer would emerge. But that wouldn’t happen with her. She was telling the truth. She always did, no matter how painful or awkward or socially ungracious it might be. She did not lie. It was part of her code.
“He wanted her to be found,” Angela said.
“How do you know that?”
“There was no other explanation. Those woods are huge. He could have hid her in a million places, and she never would have been found. But he didn’t do that. He left her twenty yards from the campsite.”
Bachman continued to stare at her. Why was he waiting? Hadn’t she told him this before?
“A camper found the body. He was scared out of his mind. Called 911 as soon as he could,” Angela continued.
Nature of Evil Page 1
