Beloved Evangeline (A Dark Paranormal Urban Fantasy Trilogy for Grown-ups - Book 1)

by W. C. Anderson

  I rolled my window down and stared back. My finger poised in front of the stereo power button with deliberation, my eyes flashing.

  Mr. Vaughn cocked an eyebrow in apparent confusion. The moment was perfect.

  I let him puzzle for several long moments. The suspense was fantastic. As we continued to stare at one another, I pressed the power button forcefully, and the audacity of my favorite Rage Against the Machine song commenced at full volume.

  Mr. Vaughn’s wide-eyed attention on me was so complete that he completely forgot the kids. I was the one he really wanted to fuss at, right?

  The kids only had the chance to gape for a moment. With the slightest of nods, and without even a sideways glance in their direction, they scattered immediately. Mr. Vaughn, in his focus, didn’t even notice. We were in the throes of a full throttle, hairy-eyed stare-down.

  It seemed he had finally pushed me too far, and I had snapped. Either that or... the recent events in my life had had a more profound effect on me than I’d imagined. I didn’t feel like thinking about it too hard at the moment. Common sense could only weigh me down at this point.

  We may have remained deadlocked all day were it not for some kind of a strange delivery truck arriving at Mr. Vaughn’s house. The delivery driver got out of his truck, clipboard in hand, and slowly walked up to Bruce. The poor man clearly did not know what to make of us, a grown woman and a crusty oldish man engaged in modern day battle of good vs. evil, using only rock music and the wasting of people’s precious time and patience.

  “Bruce Vaughn?” the driver called out. “I have a delivery here...”

  At last, Bruce’s concentration was broken by force, as the driver put his clipboard in front of his face.

  “I need a signature for this?” The driver continued uncertainly.

  I imagine Bruce turned his attention to the delivery matter, but my view was obstructed. I took full advantage of the distraction, speeding away tactfully, graciously refusing to acknowledge the victory, and without even burning any rubber.

  No one was in the office when I made my arrival, which actually felt like kind of a letdown. When my computer blinked to life, the time on its clock read 6:45. I went through my email first, thinking that was as good a place as any to start. Incredulously, after only one week away from the office, I had over 400 unread email messages. Most of them were completely pointless, and I deleted them immediately. The ones that caught my attention were the ones from Mr. Oxley. I pulled up those next, cringing in horror at what they were going to say. I went through them all quickly and found... nothing. None of them were actually addressed to me. They were just general emails about various work procedures or our monthly group luncheon or time he was taking off for the upcoming holidays. Absolutely none of the emails were addressed to me. Mr. Oxley and I typically exchange email messages on a weekly basis so I found the fact that he’d not sent anything to me alarmingly unusual. Then again I don’t know why I was so surprised. Of course I knew there were going to be repercussions for my irresponsible behavior, whatever the motivation behind it.

  As none of the remaining emails merited immediate attention, I turned my focus toward my inbox. Empty. No papers of any kind. I would’ve probably noticed that straightaway if I hadn’t been so absorbed with checking my email messages. The thought occurred to me that my desk had probably been emptied of its contents by now, which caused me to immediately set about opening drawers. After a cursory search, my belongings still appeared to be intact, but... maybe they’d just been overlooked. I pondered that thought for a moment and finally decided I’d just ask Gregorio personally when he came in. In the meantime, I finished checking the remainder of my email inbox.

  People began arriving to the office after 7. Lyle popped his head into my office shortly thereafter. “Hey! You’re not dead!” He exclaimed excitedly.

  “No, Lyle,” I said slowly, “I’m not.”

  “I thought for sure you’d become the latest victim of Steve’s killing spree.”

  “Good morning, Nice to see you, too. What’s that? Oh, yes, I’m having a smashingly good day, so far.” I replied with sarcasm.

  He rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t do small talk, Evangeline,” he snapped.

  I smiled and nodded knowingly. I loved giving Lyle a good ribbing, but only because I didn’t like small talk, either. Oh, I don’t flat out refuse as Lyle does, but there are times when I certainly wish I could. A small measure of warmth seemed to be growing inside me. It felt good to be around friends again.

  “So enlighten me... why do you keep saying it’s Steve?” I finally queried.

  “By using a system of graphs, I’ve been able to deduce that the killer is someone who works in this office,” Lyle announced sincerely. He retrieved his wallet from his back pocket and pulled a folded piece of paper from it. “These graphs represent the normal cycles of our work production. The timing of the murders all coincide with the conclusion of our work cycles.” He pointed to a series of graphs on the paper. “I like to keep a track of our work trends... it helps me brainstorm ideas for the future and predict patterns in our customer behavior. I like to stay one step ahead of the customers, that way I can offer them what they want before they even know what . Each of the spikes represent when were at the busiest, which usually coincides with somewhere between the 11th and 15th of the month for us. At the down slope of the work curve for the last eight cycles, a different woman has died mysteriously. See, right here.”

  There was a hand drawn “x” and a date scrawled at the bottom of each of those curves for the last eight cycles. I pulled a puzzled expression. I wasn’t as confident in these statistics as Lyle, but I had to admit, it hardly seemed coincidental.

  “What about our customers—or similar companies--wouldn’t their work cycle graphs look the same?”

  “No, I thought of that, too. Our customers have basically a reverse of our graphs. That one is back at my desk. Come by later, and I’ll show you. They start ramping up only when they get the specs and products from us. Their graph picks up where ours leaves off. And I ran the numbers to the best of my ability for our two strongest competitors. They don’t process orders as quickly or as efficiently as we do, so the arcs on their graphs are longer by a good three or four days. Only the schedule of our work cycle fits the pattern exactly.”

  I stared at the cyclical patterns on the piece of paper before me. Was it possible? Someone working here could actually be a murderer?

  “Why Steve?” I asked. “Couldn’t it be somebody, anybody else working here?”

  “I dunno know. Could be someone else, I guess.” Lyle responded with a shrug. “Just don’t like him.”

  “How scientific.” It was my turn to roll my eyes.

  “So now you’re defending him because of....” he paused, apparently fumbling for the right word, “the party?”

  I nodded thoughtfully to myself. I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to address The Steve Ordeal, but I had at least decided that I wasn’t going to explain myself to anyone.

  “I’m not defending anybody. I just thought you must have some evidence, that’s all.”

  “Touchy. I didn’t mean anything, Evangeline. I just thought you must like Steve after...”

  “I don’t,” I interrupted flatly.

  Lyle’s head went back in surprise, his eyes widening. I’d never snapped at him before.

  “I’m sorry, Lyle. I just really don’t want to talk about it. Friends?”

  “Friends—always.” Lyle nodded, smiling. “I’ve got a meeting at 7:30, but stop by my office later and I’ll show you the rest of my graphs.” Lyle turned quickly and disappeared down the hallway.

  “See ya,” I called after him belatedly, having been drawn back into the pattern before me. Was it also possible that everything in life could be deduced to a pattern as easily readable as this? I thought about my own behavior, which occurred to me would look like the reverse of these slopes. My moods tended to dip way down and t
hen after a time level off. Would a graph show a predictable pattern to it? Just the thought of it was dispiriting. I didn’t want to believe all behavior, particularly my own, fit into any neat little pattern that someone could graph and study.

  Mr. Oxley was usually in by 7:30, so I set off to grab a cup of tea to help me man up before going to see him. I walked into Mr. Oxley’s office, tea cup in hand. His back was turned to the doorway as he busied himself with his computer.

  “Mr. Oxley?” I called, anxious now to get this over with.

  “What? Oh, Evangeline, you startled me.” He rustled some of his papers and quickly clicked off the screen on his computer.

  He seemed uncharacteristically preoccupied, and I wondered if this really was the opportune moment to bring up my own problems.

  “How are you feeling? On the mend, I see.” He eyed me appraisingly.

  Despite whatever was going on, I had obviously not been fired. He didn’t even seem to notice I was wearing jeans. I felt a twinge of shame and remorse for my childish rebellion.

  “Food poisoning is a nasty business... had it myself a time or two.” He shook his head, his face arranged in an expression of distaste. “But to have that in combination with the swine flu...” His entire forehead raised in apparent astonishment. “Well, let’s just say we didn’t expect you back for another few weeks. I must say I really appreciate your dedication and hard work in finishing up those assignments, particularly in your condition. I do have a special assignment or two that I’ve been saving, if you’re interested?”

  Hu? Swine flu? Food poisoning? Both of those ailments filled my head with less than appealing images.

  “Sure,” I finally managed, muscling through my growing confusion and nausea. What was he talking about? My curiosity was threatening to get the better of me, though the most prudent course seemed to be to just go with it.

  Gregorio handed me two double-decker manila envelopes. I took them wordlessly and turned for the door.

  “If you find yourself feeling weak and just need to leave for the day, please, just go. In fact,” he contemplated for a moment, “maybe you should just work at home for the next couple of weeks, seeing that all of your regular work has already been taken care of... I can’t have the entire office coming down with... something.” He made a face at me as though germs were literally leaping off of me and onto the files that were now in my hand.

  I nodded in understanding before quickly fleeing what felt like the scene of a crime.

  I returned to my office momentarily to turn off my computer and collect my things. There was an instant message flashing at me on the screen from Nicky. I owed her a face-to-face explanation, so I went ahead and turned off my computer, heading down the corridor to her office.

  There was quite a bit of chatter coming from somewhere. It was alarmingly loud the closer I drew to the beginning of Nicky’s hallway.

  “What if she kills herself or something?” came a voice I recognized as belonging to Veronica, one of the growing number of people to whom I am nothing more than a blight on their orderly world.

  She continued in an excited whisper, “now that her dirty little secret is out... who knows what will happen? I mean, the girl’s a total freak. I’ve always known there was something off about her. She scares me. She just can’t dress the way she does without something being wrong—it’s like I dunno, too weird. There’s just too hard an edge to her black suits with navy shirts and punk rock shoes. She just doesn’t belong here.” There was a muttering of agreement from my lovely coworkers. I looked down at my jagged, raw-edged Mary Janes. This is punk rock? I supposed my clothes were a reflection of my personality, my longing for the artistic and sublime—every article of clothing purchased reflecting notes of a melody emblazoned upon my soul.

  It also occurred to me I was becoming quite the eavesdropper lately, but found I couldn’t stop myself. Hearing what others thought of me had proven enlightening of late. Painful and humiliating, but enlightening. And wasn’t this better than actually engaging in gossip about someone else? I thought about that for a moment. Of course it was, I decided at last.

  “She never goes to any of the office functions...” Veronica continued, “and when she finally does... she acts like a total whore.” My back stiffened as though my face had literally been slapped. “That must be what guys see in her. I mean, I guess she’s pretty, but she’s not that pretty, you know? She’s got that whole tomboy thing going on—I guess some guys are into it, but I just don’t think she’s all that. Plus, she’s always, like, dark and moody or something, right? She doesn’t, like, smile. And her hair always looks like she’s just been through a roll in the sheets. What guy wants to hang around with that? Now we know for sure what they were interested in...” She sounded positively ecstatic about my humiliation.

  She was always so falsely cheerful and phony; underneath the façade lurked pure evil. She’d dished out a number of thinly disguised insults to me over the years. She told me once that I was very brave for not covering my freckles with makeup. I wear eye makeup—a messy, smoky eye thing—and that’s it. I wish I could just take it when things like that are handed out—turn the other cheek. Instead I replied, “Sorry, the eyesore must be really hard on you.”

  Even that is probably still better than the blank stare I typically give in response to such comments.

  This is just one of those things I could never stomach. The purpose of a woman’s life is not just to be window dressing, right? Having to go around marking our territory, competing for male attention—attention I don’t even want in the first place? Why did it need to be this way again? See, this is exactly why I don’t normally venture from my little corner office.

  “Somebody said she had, like, a breakdown or something and just quit without any notice. Can you believe that? Anyway, thank God we don’t have to see her sour face here ever again.”

  My resolved stiffened, and I smiled despite myself.

  I marched into her office doorway casually, popping my head inside. “Hey guys!” There were eight or nine people crammed into her little office. Lisa, Tiffany, Brittney, who is, like, 22 years old, the crux of Veronica’s clique, were clearly in view. Two or three men were among them, I noticed John M., briefly, but the others were a blur. My eyes flickered over their faces, settling on Nicky’s face for just a fraction of a second longer than everyone else’s. I kept the hurt and surprise from showing on my face, however, and turned back to Veronica.

  “Just curious to see if anyone saw Dexter this weekend?” I powered on, determined now.

  Their mouths hung open slightly, eyes wide.

  “No? That’s a shame—it was awesome. But no one died in the whole episode, so it left me with a certain longing.” I gestured with my hands. “Just didn’t satisfy my bloodlust, you know?” I added in salivatory fashion, grinning mischievously.

  “Wish I could stay and chat, but I’ve got a wicked lot of crazy things to do.” I winked and spun out the door, marching off. Maybe it was a little too dramatic, but it felt good.

  When I’d reached the outer doors leading to the parking lot, I heard hurried footsteps coming up behind me.

  “Evangeline?” Nicky called meekly.

  I paused at the door, not wanting to look back.

  “I just wanted you to know that we all started off talking about work stuff...” she trailed off.

  A terrible silence seemed to stand between us.

  Nicky broke it at last. “Hey, there’s an indie film festival in Gainesville next weekend… I thought maybe you’d like to go.”

  “Yeah? That’d be great,” I replied, trying to hold my voice together.

  “Evangeline, I didn’t know she was going to start talking about you and...” she blurted out, “I just didn’t know how to leave when it started.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “You know I wouldn’t say anything bad about you...”

  “I know,” I replied painfully.

  “So when did you get
back?” She asked, clearly eager to change the subject. “Is everything okay? I left you a few messages...”

  I knew Nicky hadn’t said anything ugly about me. I felt it in my soul. And how could I blame her for wanting to have more sociable friends? The answer was that I couldn’t. And now she was forced into explaining her behavior to me when it really wasn’t necessary. Now it was my turn to feel ashamed. I wish I could be more cheerful, sweet and outgoing like Nicky, but it’s just not the way my die was cast. What was she supposed to do—wait for me to come out of my funk forever? Of course not. None of this was her fault. The blame was all mine.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I began, but my voice still sounded strained.

  Even though I knew in my heart she hadn’t done anything to betray our friendship, I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. Betrayal somehow gets under my skin and takes time to work its way out. Therefore, any conversation I would make with Nicky right now, before I could work through my feelings, would be forced, and I didn’t want to be phony with Nicky. Admitting to her that I felt betrayed would only make her feel worse. How could I make her feel guilty about something that wasn’t really her fault in the first place? I couldn’t make myself continue.