She retrieved her things, including the CD from the stereo. She was careful to leave the room clean, with no way to connect her to the murder. Nobody knew she was with him. She took one more look before leaving quietly. It was just before midnight when Lori returned to her layover hotel. She showered then climbed into bed and fell asleep. Her alarm clock woke her, and within an hour, she met with her crew in the hotel lobby. Like an apparition, she would completely disappear without a trace. The early flight departure gave her the distance that would prevent her capture. Like all of the other murders she had committed, this one would confound and mystify investigators.
As her flight departed into the early-morning haze, she contemplated what she needed to do when she got back home. She would stop by the food store for groceries. Renting a movie was an option. She had to water the plants, and there were bills to pay. She also thought about the man who had beaten her and who sexually abused their young daughter on the pretext of love.
* * *
The odor drew the first witness to the gruesome crime scene. She reported the repugnant smell to the front desk. When the manager arrived, he knocked heavily on the cottage door. Not receiving a response, he announced “Manager” and went inside. After a few short steps, he saw all he needed to see, and radioed the front office to call the police. The girl with the halter-top, and tight denim shorts, looking on from the doorway, let out a terrifying, chilling scream. Her boyfriend ran to join her. Both stood frozen and gawked at the twisted carcass with the severely contorted expression.
While the three of them waited for the police, they debated going back inside to see if the victim was still alive. Finally, the brave manager told the two lovers to stand back while he checked for a pulse. Forcing himself to go back in, he made his way to the bed. Just as he was about to touch the discolored wrist, the feel of a hand on his arm nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. A Kevlar-vested female officer, behaving in typical maximum-threat fashion, quickly herded him and the other two witnesses away to safety. With her laser-sight illuminated, she tightened her grip on her weapon, and held it in front of her as she searched the premises.
Blues and reds flashed in rapid succession against the drizzle and overcast. The entire cottage was illuminated in white light as more emergency personnel arrived. The first responders were soaked in adrenaline as they performed their duties. The discovery of the dead man was contagious. News trucks with painted station logos arrived, and extended their antennas high into the night sky for satellite feeds. Reporters descended on the scene like vultures with their outstretched, hideous wings. They went to work on the carcass using blood to sell valuable advertising space. The first reporter on the scene, desperately seeking network recognition, spewed directly into the camera lens the earliest details as investigators relayed them.
...The victim, a Caucasian male, was stabbed repeatedly, and castrated. Although unconfirmed, this reporter has been told by sources close to the investigation, that the victim is a Catholic priest. Just moments ago, Bishop Archibald, from the Mother of Soul’s parish here in Gulfport, has administered last rites...
It was riveting television. “Reality” death always held a captive audience. The news stations played the gruesome scene repeatedly, albeit with parental warnings. Jurisdiction of the crime scene, a treasured pearl of law enforcement, passed from the Gulfport locals to Special Agent Mika Scott, when she and her Evidence Response Team arrived from Quantico a few hours later.
* * *
After waiting for over an hour, I recline on the couch, but shift into several uncomfortable positions. I can’t sit still. I hate having to surrender my thoughts and my emotions to him. God forbid I say something that causes him to take me off the streets. I would leave, except the department's policy requires all cops involved in a shooting, have to see the shrink.
“I watched as the Molotov cocktail flew in an arc and crashed through the stained glass window. Jesus the Shepherd was at the center of the window only moments before.”
I feel like I’m suffocating, cornered. The place and surroundings couldn’t help, but make you feel flawed as a human being.
“The Molotov cocktail rolled across the sacristy floor spitting yellow and orange flames. Heavy, coal-colored, swirling smoke billowed out. Nothing could be done, while the blaze burned the house of God to the ground. Then the dark angel responsible, as if receiving an order directly from Satan, began the last barrage. The weapon discharged, and my windshield exploded. Shards of glass and debris flew all around me. I dropped to the pavement.”
After a long swallow from the glass of water on the end table, the rest of my nightmare slips out.
Easy Jake, don’t talk about anger in front of the man.
“One of the ‘cop killer’ round struck Sergeant Peterson a few yards away from me. I couldn’t get to him. I was pinned down then I took a hit. I didn’t feel it at first, the burn. I returned fire. My first round shattered the larynx, and the perp’s arms extended as if begging to be crucified. My second round tore open the chest. The black, fatigue-clad body danced beneath the yellowish glow of the fluorescent streetlights. It stood like a statue, before finally collapsing to the pavement. My bullet-riddled radiator hissed. Stepping through the blood, I cautiously approached and kicked away the weapon. I took out my ‘cuffs, but the body appeared lifeless. My still hot Glock dropped to my side. It was over.”
Trying to alleviate the pains and stress in my body, I shift again. He sits quietly, hands clasped together, and gives me time to get it all out.
“The paramedic removed the ski mask, and her auburn hair limply cascaded down. Her face had a horrified look that said an angry God was already passing sentence. Her lips quivered, and I thought she was trying to speak. I dropped down to hear, but I only felt her last breath touch my face.”
I blink as the corners of my eyes begin to tear.
“Rapid cerebral replays of the shooting and heavy doses of guilt have dogged me since. She was just a kid.”
Abrams allows my words to hang in the air. His unnerving silence makes me squirm and twitch. Is he waiting for me to collapse? He asks a simple question with a calm voice.
“Can you go on, or would you like to stop here?”
That really cranks me off, so I blast back.
“Hey, tell me what I’m supposed to do here, what I’m supposed to say, tell me how I’m supposed to heal.”
Abrams answers with a calm, compassionate tone.
“Jake, it doesn’t work that way. You had physical trauma from the gunshot, and the doctor prescribed a pill for the pain, but what’s in your head cannot be cured with a pill.”
Dr. Thaddeus Abrams, mid-forties, is wearing his trademark heavy-rimmed, black eyeglasses. He is soft-spoken and polite. In addition to his own practice, he is included in the department’s payroll. A shooter like me is supposed to attend therapy once a week. Those who work through their pain can regain their life and career. If the scars are too deep sometimes, recovery is impossible then it will be just a matter of time before their prolonged misery ends in suicide. I’m not going to be counted among the lost.
“I can’t erase what happened to you Jake. It will always be in your memory. All I can do is to try and help you find some closure and that’s going to take time.”
I know what I have to, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore. As I make my way toward the office door, I turn to face the eminent psychiatrist. The words I thought would come out don’t, so I close the door behind me.
“Jake?”
The receptionist behind the glass window in the waiting room makes a gallant effort to corner me for another appointment. Faces look up from their magazines, as I hurry my escape. I feel exposed. I can’t reach for the doorknob fast enough, but instead the door opens in my face.
An extraordinarily attractive woman enters. She holds everyone’s attention. We stare at her as if she were a model strutting down the runway at a fashion show. She seems unaffected by the gawking. We ma
ke eye contact and she smiles, but in my jammed up state of mind I can’t smile back. Along my journey down the long, empty corridor I think about her. Walking out of the building into the stabbing sunlight that temporarily blinds me, I think about her. As the freezer chill of the air-conditioned offices dissipates rapidly in the heat, I think about her. When I open the door to my apartment I realize she is the only other thing I have thought about, in my bruised and crippled psyche, since killing that girl.
* * *
There was no resemblance to the other hard-core patients in the office. After checking in with the receptionist, she found an empty seat, and sat straight up with her purse neatly placed on her lap. Her breathtaking eyes stared straight ahead, and didn’t acknowledge anyone in the waiting room. She didn’t read any of the old and torn magazines. Instead Lori replayed in her mind, the entire visit she made to the cemetery before her appointment to see Dr. Abrams. Whenever she returned from a flight, she made sure she went to see her daughter Emily. In her daydream, she saw herself walking past the many headstones along the manicured lawn. She arrived at the one that rested above her daughter’s grave. Her fingers lightly stroked the name on the marble then cleared the grave of fallen leaves and debris. She replaced the bouquet in the holder with freshly cut wildflowers.
“Hi baby, mommy’s here.”
I missed you mommy.
“I missed you too, honey.”
Lori’s head tilted to one side and was followed by a sigh. Soft tears trickled down her cheeks as the anguish of Emily’s passing returned. After years, it still hurt. As all parents do when preceded in death by their children, she mourned the loss with heartbreak, sadness, and overwhelming guilt.
Where did you go mommy?
Wiping away tears, Lori tried to sound upbeat.
“I had a flight to Gulfport baby, just an overnight. We got back early this morning. I unpacked and came right over to see you.”
Did you have fun mommy?
“It was okay, it wasn’t fun, just okay.”
Lori changed the subject.
“Did you remember yesterday was my birthday?”
Oh yes mommy, Happy Birthday to you!
The child’s voice sang the birthday song. Lori’s dire expression turned to a half-hearted smile, as she touched her daughter’s headstone. It had changed from a piece of granite, to her young daughter’s face.
I wish I could have celebrated it with you,
“I know baby, I know. You look so beautiful Emily, so beautiful.”
I love you mommy.
“I love you too, baby.”
Mourners at a nearby gravesite looked in her direction, but she quickly turned away from their curious stares. Without looking up again, she spread a small blanket on the lawn next to the grave. The recently mowed grass had a sweet scent. She sat down and brought her legs up beneath her chin. She wrapped her arms around them to hold them in. With her chin resting on her knees, she stared at a small beetle making its way through the grass then she heard the other voice.
Don’t be fooled into believing that luck got you this far and will take you the rest of the way. Many have stood before a magistrate because of such flawed thought.
“I know, I know,” Lori said.
Don’t take that attitude with me.
The voice was demeaning and punishing. She hated the voice, and would have done anything to make it stop. She whispered like a scolded child.
You listen to me. No one cares about you, but me.
“I won’t disappoint you.”
Lori was apologetic having heard the lectures before.
You have to follow the rules.
“Yes I know, no records. Don’t leave anything behind. Don’t attract attention. Know the geography. And alcohol is a truth serum––I got it.”
Well if it’s all so clear then what did you think you were doing in Gulfport.
“He was an authority figure just like the rest––”
Lori wanted to argue, but she knew it was useless.
Murder is as empowering as it is compelling.
After that, Lori didn’t hear the voices. The other mourners had all gone, and she was sitting alone in the cemetery shading her eyes from the bright, unrelenting sun. Before she left, she took one more look at her daughter’s name on the headstone. Then another voice, an unfamiliar voice, interrupted her daydream.
“Ms. Powers, the doctor will see you now.”
* * *
Terrorism had hit home, and was on everyone’s mind. Outside the terminal, airport traffic officers ordered the towing of unattended cars no longer permitted to park curbside. As Captain Parker walked briskly out of the terminal, and into the noonday sun, the last thing on his mind was terrorism. Nick was much more concerned about unintentionally revealing any evidence the sweet, young Tricia had left behind. She had kissed him goodbye only minutes before with a heavy smear of lipstick then headed out the opposite side of the terminal. He wasn’t sure he had gotten it all off. He rapidly surveyed the roadway to his left and right searching for the new Mrs. Parker, but she wasn’t in sight.
Trisha had a wonderful two days in Los Angeles. Nick bought her expensive gifts, and took her to dinner at an exclusive restaurant. She screwed his brains out in return, which made them even she figured. The next time he called though, she planned to tell him to drop dead, unless there was nothing else to do in town.
Seeing his new bride, Nick waved as if she was the only woman on earth. She pulled up in the macho SUV and stopped at his feet. He liked it when women deferred to him. He expected them to treat him like God. After all, pilots thought they were. Mrs. Parker leapt out of the car, and rushed toward him, throwing her entire perfect body into him causing the air to burst out of his lungs.
“Oh baby, I’ve missed you so much,” Susan said.
“It feels like a millennium since I’ve been able to hold you,” Nick said.
He knew what to say, to get what he wanted.
“I’ve got to have you right now, Susan.”
It fascinated Nick how easily women fell for his smooth talk and lies. They were willing to do just about anything to have someone to call their own. They would clean, cook, iron and even squeeze out babies, for love. What was even more amazing, he thought, was they couldn’t see it, didn’t get it. To him, love was a fabricated concept created simply for a man to justify the fulfillment of a biological need to release millions of microscopic, aggressive sperm. A woman was nothing more than a late-night depository.
“Where’s Wendy?”
Parker asked knowing that Susan’s young daughter was an object of his degenerate affection. Susan made up a story because she knew Wendy detested him, but she could never figure out why. He would constantly spoil Wendy with lavish gifts that often made Susan jealous. She found his constant concern about Wendy’s well being reassuring, and believed that Nick was the perfect father figure for her.
“Home, she had homework to finish. You know how kids are.”
Nick’s face exhibited contrived concern
“Is everything all right with her?”
“Yeah, she’s fine, just a young girl trying to figure out the big world. It’s not easy you know.”
Seeing Parker in uniform, a traffic officer approached and reprimanded him.
“Captain you need to move it along, sir. The rules apply to everyone.”
“Sorry officer, you’re absolutely right, and we’re moving it.”
Nick’s apologetic tone saved him. He detested it when those he considered his inferiors, the lower rung, told him what to do. He didn’t take direction. He gave it. Nick opened the passenger door for Susan, and she slid her long legs inside so he got a good look. He grinned, and closed her door. Tossing his flight and overnight bags in the back, he gave a small wave to the impertinent officer. He thought about berating the man, but decided he was too exhausted after the weekend with Tricia.
I owe you one officer.
The Navigator cranked over, an
d Captain Nick Parker drove home with the woman he presumably loved, to the stepdaughter he wanted to make love to, later.
* * *
The magnificent mansion he shared with Mrs. Abrams made up for having to tolerate her incessant whining. An expansive estate, it was too much for two people. A brand new Bentley was parked in the curved driveway. The thought of having children was not even a consideration, because of the great imposition it would place on their own spoiled lives. Thaddeus Abrams loved his career, and all of the benefits that came with it. He especially loved when clients, such as the troubled, but stunning, Lori Powers stared helplessly into his eyes seeking compassion, comfort, and understanding. Life was good for the good doctor, and nothing was going to interfere with his happiness.
“So how are you, Lori?”
Abrams had a knack for sounding concerned, which was why he was so successful in his line of work. He was a master at giving the impression he cared about your miserable life. With Lori, he found his career to be particularly rewarding.
“It hasn’t been a very good week,” Lori said.
“Let me see, according to my notes, we were discussing your family history during your last visit. Why don’t you pick it up from there?”
He looked over the tops of his reading glasses at her. She closed her eyes and thought. The moment she felt prepared, and comfortable, organized, she began. Abrams gave a slight nod.
“I remember the very first time he slithered into my bed. He wanted me. I was too young, too trusting to protest, to say no.”
Her mood turned sullen. Abrams missed most everything she said after that. He just wanted to get her talking, so he could look into her captivating eyes, and listen to her smoky voice. Whenever she turned away, he would sneak a peek at her breasts and legs. Her first statement sent him drifting off into another fantasy daydream about her.
She stood in the garden below in the black French-cut bikini that was his favorite.
After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) Page 2
