Visions of Evil

by J. E. Neiman

  Visions of Evil By J. E. Neiman

  This novel is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictiously. All names, characters, incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Copyright © 2006 by J. E. Neiman

  ISBN 978-0-9850637-0-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced in any manner, whatsoever, without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact J. E. Neiman @ JNeiman3@gmail.com.

  Dedication

  “Visions of Evil” is dedicated to members of the SIN Critique group in Sedona, Arizona, and to my children who constantly inspire me. I thank my life experiences, some great and some not so pleasant, that have helped create my vivid imagination and stories in my mind.

  Chapter 1

  Denver, Colorado

  Jake Tansey was horny. He'd spent over thirty minutes in downtown Denver, searching for a hooker. Dry snowflakes pelted his lightweight overcoat. "Damn," he muttered, and glanced at his wristwatch. He still had enough time for a blowjob before returning to the overheated Brown Palace Hotel. Jake took another quick glance around.

  He noticed a skinny girl standing in a shop's doorway, gazing inside. He guessed her to be fifteen or sixteen. She had short, straw-blond hair and wore a dark-blue backpack, strapped over her shoulders. It appeared jam-packed. The teen wore a dirty-tan parka, ripped jeans and grimy tennis shoes. Jake couldn't believe his luck. This was a perfect opportunity to meet his needs.

  He ran his fingers through his curly, dark-brown hair and glanced at the store's marquee, where a representation of Saint Sebastian's near nude body, bound to a tree, was blatantly displayed. Even though his dad was an evangelical minister, Jake knew all the Catholic saints from a hagiography class at a church college his parents demanded he attend. He couldn't tolerate the simplemindedness of it all, so he transferred to Kansas University, majoring in computer science.

  Underneath Sebastian in bold letters, the sign read ‘Julio's Body Piercing & Tattoos.’

  "Hey. Gonna get a tattoo?" Jake asked the teen.

  The girl's head snapped around. "No."

  "You're shivering. How bout a cup of coffee or something?"

  "Mister, if you're trying to pick me up . . . forget it." She took a step backwards, slipped on an icy patch on the sidewalk and clutched Jake's shoulder. After regaining her balance, she let go of him and pulled away. "Sorry. I'm waiting for Julio." She pronounced the store owner's name with a hard J sound.

  Inside, a bald man with a tattoo needle leaned over a female's shoulder. The artist wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, evidently to reveal his mega biceps and numerous tattoos. Bright red letters spelled out "Pearl" on his left forearm. A gust of wind caused the store's canvas awning to flap. Jake cringed but didn't know why.

  He turned to the girl. "I don't think you know Julio," he said, pronouncing the name correctly.

  She blushed and stammered, "Well, I . . ."

  "Look, I was just being friendly. Besides, I'm married. Headed back to California in a couple of hours. I've only one more software presentation to do."

  A group of cowboys hustled by, hooting and hollering. One young man with a huge black Stetson stopped, tilted his hat and whistled at the girl before joining his friends.

  "Yahoo," Jake mocked. "How could we forget that the rodeo starts tomorrow?"

  The thin girl tipped her head toward him and smiled. "Kind of wild when they get off the range." She reached out and caught a few snowflakes in her hands. Silver bangles clinked together on one wrist. "Did you know that no two snowflakes are the same?" Each word formed a small puff of fog in the frosty air.

  "Um . . . yeah."

  "And each flake has six sides?" She wiped her hands on her parka and stared at his face. "You're about the same age as my dad."

  He didn't want to hear about her daddy. "It's cold out here. I smell food. I'm going to the restaurant across the street. If you want to join me, come on over."

  "I'll come. My name's Molly."

  * * *

  Inside the diner, Molly wolfed down chicken soup and a hamburger. She told Jake she had hitchhiked to Denver from Michigan. "I graduated from high school early. I'm going to get a job in a ski area."

  Jake surmised that the girl's parents kicked her out, possibly for smoking a little dope. And with her drawl, he guessed she was from Texas, not Michigan. If he didn't pop her cherry, another asshole would. "Wanta ride with me to Breckenridge? I'm going right by there."

  "Gee, that'd be cool. But I'm broke. I can't pay you anything."

  "Not to worry." He turned away and grinned. She would most certainly pay. "Come with me to the hotel. You can get warm there."

  The girl wrinched. "Ah . . . I'm not going to a hotel with you."

  "Only to the lobby, sweet thing." Jake grabbed her arm.

  When they entered the odd, triangular building, Molly stared at the Mexican onyx walls and the stained glass ceiling. A Brown Palace Hotel steward gave Jake an accusing look. Jake slipped him a twenty and the man backed away.

  "Sit in that big leather chair over there. I'll do my thing. Then will leave this joint."

  Molly smiled and snuggled into the large chair. "Thanks."

  "No problem. See you in a few." He could hardly contain himself with the anticipation of what he could, and would do to this stupid, little tramp.

  Chapter 2

  Denver, Colorado

  Allison Lewis dried her hair with a pale-pink towel as she pulled a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. Her phone rang, and she pressed the speaker button.

  "Agent Lewis. Glad you're home."

  "Sheriff Doll?"

  "Yep. We think we found Pauly St. Claire." The sheriff's voice wavered. "He's dead. Your images were right on target. A ranger found a boy's body at a viewpoint near Georgetown. He's at the bottom of an outhouse. A park toilet."

  "Oh, sweet Jesus. That's terrible." She caught herself and asked. "That's off I-70, right?"

  "Yeah. It's exit 226. When you said you saw Pauly in a dark hole surrounded by aspen trees, plus the name George, I asked rangers to double check any parks in the Georgetown vicinity." The Sheriff paused and coughed. "After an extensive search . . . they found the child."

  "Wait a second. Need to pick up my handset." Allie glanced out her sixth floor apartment window to the Broadway's snowy streets below.. "Sheriff Doll, I'll go. Maybe I can pick up information on Pauly's last moments and something about the killer."

  "Hoped you'd say that. We would've never found him without you."

  She heard the tough, deep voice crack. A child's body at the bottom of an outhouse had upset him, although she knew he'd seen unspeakable things in his thirty-five-year law enforcement career.

  "When you get there, the toilet sits near the back. I'll notify the rangers and the medical examiner that you're coming."

  "I'll leave soon."

  "Thank you, Allie."

  She hung up the phone. The four-year-old Down's syndrome boy had been missing for three days, apparently snatched from the Spring Food Fair at Larimer Square in downtown Denver. His parents said he had vanished from their side.

  Allie drove west up I-70 with tears in her eyes. She grabbed a random CD from her collection, placed it in the car player and turned up the volume. Eva Cassidy's voice resonated, "For you, there'll be no crying. . ." The song reminded Allie of her identical twin, Madison, and her mom. They loved this song. She missed them and wished Madison still worked with her as an intuitive investigator. But Maddie had followed
her dream to fill a research position at Salk's Institute in La Jolla, CA. Their mom, Susan, managed the family's cattle and grain ranch near Red Willow, Nebraska. Allie decided to call them when she received better cellular reception. Talking to them helped deal with the emotional strain of her work. They both had gone through similar distress with cases they'd worked on in the past.

  Tall evergreens and aspens swayed in the wind as Allie pulled into a parking space. Four law enforcement vehicles, two fire trucks, and a white van were crowded into the small area. Now a crime scene, Allie was relieved that a satellite TV news team had not yet arrived. Uniformed people mingled around the outhouse that sat to the rear of the mini-park.

  Allie showed her FBI badge as she walked into the group. She hoped that Sheriff Doll had asked them to await her arrival before removing the body. She noted the varied facial expressions of anger, tension and despair. She understood that a few in the assembly resented her as a psychic investigator. "I'd like to take a look," she said to Detective Blackburn, who was in charge of the crime scene.

  "Of course, Agent Lewis." The detective stepped aside.

  She shone her flashlight into the dark, foul-smelling hole, illuminating the decapitated body. Pauly's head lay near his naked chest. His eyes were shut and his mouth hung open. She recognized the round cheeks, flattened nose and slanted eyes that were typical of a Down's Syndrome child.

  "It's Pauly," she said softly. A wave of nausea hit her from the ghastly smell. The flashlight slipped out of her hand and fell into the pit, missing the body parts by inches. Allie quickly backed out and walked away from the hideous scene. She stood on the snow-covered ground and took deep breaths. The wind shook the tree branches above her, and she heard children calling out to each other somewhere down the hill. To clear her head, she imagined the voices were seagulls above crashing ocean waves. It helped.

  "Agent, are you okay?"

  Allie looked up at Dr. Robert Hafner, a medical examiner from Clear Creek County. "I'll be all right." She stood straighter. "Just . . . upset that I dropped the flashlight."

  Dr. Hafner's eyes narrowed. "Sheriff Doll told me you're a psychic investigator and said you provided the clues to find the boy. Never believed in that psychic stuff, but I'm glad we found the child. How'd you do it?"

  "It's difficult to describe. I see images like fragments of a movie. Sometimes they come to me when I'm not even working on a case. Other times, I have to rely on my guides for help."

  "Guides?" Dr. Hafner, a tall man with wrinkles etched into his face wiggled his palms at his side.

  "I have several." Allie's eyes searched the doctor's face. Yes, he's ready to hear what I see, she thought.

  "My guide Pearl just told me about your daughter who has passed on. Lily's always with you."

  "Christ. That happened ten years before I moved here." Tears flooded his eyes and he looked to the ground.

  Allie's cell phone rang. She turned away from the doctor. "Hello. . . Sheriff Doll. Yes, I've taken a look. The decapitation puzzles me." Allie started to hang up but added, "Sheriff, have Detective Blackburn check the trash receptacle by the exit. I believe something could still be there to help solve this case." She clicked her phone shut and faced Dr. Hafner.

  He spoke first. "You don't need to be here when we pull the little guy out. It's going to be tricky and . . . messy. But could you come to my lab tomorrow, say around four. I should know by then if the boy was killed before decapitation or not."

  "I'll do that." She turned and shuffled toward her vehicle in hopes of gathering insight on Pauly's murderer.

  Allie glanced back at Dr. Hafner holding the door for two firemen as they entered the small toilet with ropes and hoisting equipment. She opened her car door and retrieved the keys from the floor mat. An image came to her of a thin teenage girl standing in front of a tattoo shop. A bald-headed man inside the store had a name etched on his arm in large red letters. She couldn't read it. Then she saw skiers dodging a bloody trail in the snow. A gust of wind seemed to whip the vision away. Allie grabbed her notebook, wrote down everything and dated it. She knew it was a vision of evil.

  As Allie threaded her car into the traffic on I-70 east, timing her moves to the pace of the vehicles around her, she noticed a black BMW speeding in the opposite direction. A wave of wickedness emanated from the car.

  Chapter 3

  Breckenridge, Colorado

  Jake Tansey stirred a double dose of La Rocha into the scrawny teen's drink, as he watched her roam around the Breckenridge bar and grill in foolish awe. He used to call it the "forget me pill" since the drug created opportune amnesia. But his new dealer called it La Rocha. That did sound a bit more sophisticated.

  He stood up from the old-fashioned round table, pushing one of the unmatched wooden chairs out of his way. It scraped against the worn floorboards, drowning out a few bars of Toby Keith singing "There’s things here the devil wouldn't do . . . let it all go . . ." Jake's hand rested on the red and white checked tablecloth as he gave the place a quick once-over.

  A large, polished-oak antique bar divided the establishment. One side served moderately priced soup and sandwiches, the other prime rib and fresh Rocky Mountain trout. The bartender handled both sides easily.

  Jake had brought the girl to the less pricey side. He thought of how easy it had been to pick up the little tramp. He hadn't planned on this little tryst, but she like nearly everyone, trusted him.

  The girl now faced the back wall, peering at framed photographs and text of local history. Red velvet drapes hung from the ceilings to cover the windows, both for decoration and to insulate the restaurant from the cold drafts trying to creep inside.

  A couple of drunks at the bar laughed loudly. Jake enjoyed the sense of anonymity a place like this afforded, a great way to disappear. He studied the stamped tin ceilings and the large, rectangular stained-glass piece that hung at an angle over the bar. The backlit mosaic art depicted a scene of a prospector panning for gold next to a flowing blue river. The colors created eerie patterns on the customers and staff. Just now, the bartender's face was awash in shades of cobalt as his hands moved quickly in a golden hue.

  Jake sauntered toward the teen. He tried to think of her name . . . Dolly . . . Sally. With his good looks, charm and the black BMW, young girls were as easy to pick up as discarded pennies in a gutter. He didn't want to remember their names.

  As he crossed the room, he became aware of the hostess standing by the front door. He hadn’t noticed her before. Her long, dark-green dress looked like a costume from the 1880s. Her dark-auburn hair, embellished with a gold clip, was piled high on her head. The bar’s lighting gave her an ethereal look.

  Jake grinned at her from across the tables. She gave him a cold, calculating stare. Not much of a hostess, he thought. And that look? Judgmental? Critical? Naw . . . she's jealous that I'm with someone else. And someone much younger. Shit, he could get into her panties in a heartbeat. But he had already spent time and money on the little girl who now stood transfixed in front of a photo of Tom’s Baby, the largest gold nugget discovered in Colorado.

  “Look, Jake! Over thirteen pounds of gold. Can you imagine?”

  “Yep. That’s something. Hey, come back to the table." After she drank the La Rocha, he had about twenty minutes to get her out of there while she could still walk.

  “Wait. Look at Pearl. She's beautiful." Molly pulled Jake closer to a photo. "Poor lady. She and her husband were murdered right here."

  Jake leaned forward to view the picture. He peered back at the hostess. Damn, they even got someone that resembles Pearl to play her part. He smirked at the thought.

  "Oh my God," Molly exclaimed. "It says that sometimes people see Pearl's spirit here. Isn’t that neat?”

  “Yeah, yeah. All these old buildings have ghost stories. It's a trick to get you in the door.”

  Jake remembered the tale of Pearl's murder in the 1800's, from the last time he was in Breckenridge. He and his dead bitch of a wife,
Tiffany, had celebrated their honeymoon here.

  They had flown to Denver, rented an SUV and stayed a week at Eagle's Nest, a mansion owned by a friend of her moms. On the first day, he had an extra set of keys made for the place. He knew he was coming back without an invitation, or Tiffany.

  The mansion sat high above Breckenridge. On the outside, it looked like an over-sized log cabin, but when he’d first stepped through the imported carved wooden doors, Jake was amazed to see an indoor swimming pool. A flying eagle was inlaid in gold at the bottom of the water. Each of the five bedrooms had a fireplace.

  Every night, when he and Tiffany returned to the mansion, Jake insisted that they have sex in a different room. One time he brought his hogtie rope to have some fun.

  "You're twisted, Jake Tansey." She ran into a bedroom and locked the door. He hoped she would someday comply with his bondage fetish and other needs, but she never did.

  With the thought of sex, Jake’s mind snapped back to the present. The girl was still gawking at the photos. He clutched her arm. “Didn’t you hear me? A fresh drink's waiting for you.”

  “Okay. Don’t get mad. I've never been here before.”

  Jake softened his grip and led Molly back to their table. She sipped the laced drink through a straw. Jake relaxed and drank his beer, grateful the table hid his throbbing member.

  By the time they finished their drinks, Molly could not sit up straight and rambled with slurred words. He needed to get her out of there fast. Jake turned to see if the hostess was watching but couldn't find her. He knew her type and didn’t need her judgmental ass calling the cops.

  “Here let me help you put your coat on, sweet thing. It's below zero outside.”

  Their chubby waitress returned to the table. Long strands of mouse-brown hair hung around her sun burned face. Her eye area was stark white where ski goggles had sat. Jake thought she looked like a fat raccoon.