After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1)

by Cary Allen Stone

  “Daddy was like a...”

  He drifted into Fantasyland.

  She lit candles inside the darkened room, and extinguished the match with a soft, sensual whisper. Romantic melodies filled the background as she nudged him onto his back on the bed. With a naughty, teasing expression, she took her hair up, and let it fall wildly over her soft shoulders. Her bikini fell to the floor.

  “Mother didn’t have the courage to say no to him. When I turned to her, she turned away from me.”

  He caught just a piece of that statement.

  She straddled him provocatively and playfully, traced his naked body with her fingertips. Kissing his face and neck, she reached down between his legs.

  “Dr. Abrams?” Lori said.

  She had the impression Abrams missed the last few pages of her life story. He jerked back into reality, and recovered smoothly by asking a question.

  “Who was he?”

  “Who was who?”

  “Go back to the part about ‘I was too trusting.’ Were you referring to your father?”

  “I was referring to my ex-husband, doctor.”

  Abrams took a moment to think, while he wrote notes on his legal pad. She appeared to be confused about episodes between her father, and her ex-husband. The husband was missing, wasn’t he? Perhaps the trauma of her daughter’s suicide was affecting her memory. He couldn’t quite put a finger in it.

  “I’m sorry Lori, please continue.”

  Although relieved he had escaped detection, Abrams knew that he had missed something important. He had to listen closer, and find the underlying cause of it. As she pulled a tissue from the box on the table next to her chair, the doctor leaned forward in his chair. Certain he was listening this time. Lori continued with the rest of her story.

  “I remember a night. It was raining very hard, thunder, and lightning. We were parked on a hilltop surrounded by dense woods. The leaves on the trees partially obscured the moon and stars. I had an overbearing feeling something evil was present. Lying back on the upholstery, sweating, frightened, with my legs spread, he entered me. I wanted to scream, but he wouldn’t let me. Finally, he finished.”

  She dabbed the tissue in the corner of each eye then she squeezed the tissue tight in her clenched fist.

  “Then his hand raised, and came down as if it were a knife.”

  Lori shook. Abrams flinched, and was surprised by his own reaction.

  “Too young to comprehend the purpose of being struck, my baby cried as she sucked in her first seconds of life. She was so beautiful, my Emily. I was just fourteen.”

  Abrams still couldn’t put it all together, and it bothered him. Before he could ask another question, Lori spoke.

  “I have a recurring dream. I’m alone, no one else is left in the world, except me.”

  Abrams made the elusive connection between the father and the missing ex-husband, the daughter’s suicide, the beatings, and the sexual abuse. He heard similar references from other clients he had treated over the years. He scribbled on his notepad and tore off the page then reached forward, holding the page between the two of them. Lori took it and read what he had written. It was an address.

  “Unfortunately Lori, our time is up and as you know I have a few more patients waiting outside. I think we have made some real progress here today, in fact, so much so I need for you to continue this session later this evening at my home.”

  He pointed at the page.

  “That’s the address.”

  “I don’t understand, Dr. Abrams.”

  He moved closer to her and exuded compassion.

  “I believe we’ve made a major breakthrough today, and it is imperative that we discuss this further, before you leave on another flight.”

  Lori considered the option Abrams presented, but wasn’t quite sure how that meshed with her revelations. As patients do, she trusted her medical practitioner. Taking the address he gave her, she stored it in her purse, and nodded. He desperately tried to appear reserved and controlled, while she stood and walked out of the office.

  She was perfect.

  2

  After the shooting, and subsequent investigation by Internal Affairs, I was exhausted. I crashed into one of those comatose-like sleeps. Since then, I just lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. Abrams said the depression is a normal reaction to what happened, and it would eventually subside. My apartment isn’t far from the precinct. The neighborhood is nondescript, middle-class, what I could afford on my salary. There aren’t any gated communities here. The nearest one would be lock-up inside the precinct.

  The place is small, crowded with worn furniture, and has the comfortable ambiance of a bachelor pad. Being the dedicated cop that I am, I never used to spend much time here. Now, I hide inside the cave. On the porch, newspapers are piled up from the newspaper carrier who could care less. The mailman curses every time he has to jam more mail into my overflowing mailbox. The priest from Saint Dominic’s stops by, but I don’t feel holy. Over the years, I have seen stabbings, domestic violence, abuse cases, gunshot wounds—you name it. None of that damaged my head as bad as shooting that girl. The doctor prescribed Hydrocodone for the hole in my arm. I have taken much more than needed to stop the pain.

  In days past, I used to take better care of myself considering the line of work I’m in. I ate right, worked out in the gym, got plenty of sunshine, and lived a relatively healthy lifestyle. My fellow law enforcement officers joked about it all the time, but found my efforts to be admirable. Now that’s all gone and it’s just my pills and me. Abrams isn’t much help. Psychiatrists are a waste of time anyway. There was a time when I thought...hoped...God would jump in, and send an angel to save me. I’m sure He, or She, figured out I was going straight to hell anyway so why waste a perfectly good angel. I’m just going to have to deal with the bad juju single-handedly.

  “JAKE, HEY JAKE! OPEN THE DOOR!”

  The banging stops when I open the door. Harmon Blackwell, homicide detective and partner, bends down and picks up the morning’s paper out of all the others, which he nonchalantly kicks off to the side of the porch. He storms in throwing the newspaper at me. It falls to the floor as I turn toward the bedroom. My arm hurts.

  Where did I put that prescription bottle with the child-resistant cover?

  Finding it, I shake out another pill. A sip of Jack Daniels helps the little bomber go down easier.

  “If you’re here for some talk-therapy––”

  “No, I can see you’re too screwed up for that.”

  “And stop taking those damn pills, man, what’s the matter with you?”

  He doesn’t approve of my helpers. Harmon can kick my butt, without breaking a sweat. He likes it. You should see him on the street. “What did you say? What? Come here, I’m talking to you!” That’s Harmon. He lightened up a little when he got his detective shield. Homicide hasn’t been the same since. Harmon grabs my arm, the one attached to the bottle of pills.

  “Jesus, Harmon.”

  I flinch because he squeezes hard. Whenever Harmon is near, I take the name of his Savior in vain. His moms taught Fred to never disrespect Jesus, or the church. He knows from several years on the street together, I have serious theological issues. He religiously corrects me about it.

  “The old man wants you back at work, let’s go.”

  He presses harder on my sore arm and I forcefully push him away.

  “I’m on medical leave. That means you, and he, have to leave me alone.”

  My butt falls into my Lazy Boy. With my eyes closed, I kick back and slip into a dark hole. For some strange reason, probably because I had blasphemed, I think about the nuns back in the orphanage who raised me from the crib. They’re the reason why I’m so dedicated. I remember they taught me I could accomplish anything, if I just tried.

  “Get your sorry, white butt up and let’s go.”

  He’s becoming more threatening than before, but he’s going to have to improve in the tact category, be
fore he ever has a chance at moving up the crime fighter career ladder. While he speaks, I think about the girl, until she is replaced by whether or not, I think I could handle my job professionally ever again. He takes another look at me in the dim light.

  “Roberts, are you listening to me? Man, you look like hell.”

  “Thank you for your support.”

  I try to be as gracious as possible about the intent of his criticism. He shakes his head to emphasize his very strong feelings about it.

  “Those pills are going to screw you up good.”

  “Don’t you mean screw me up bad?”

  “And it’s red butt. How many times must I tell you? How long have we been partners?”

  “Red, white, I really don’t care, Jake, Fairchild told me to bring you back pronto Tonto, so let’s go.”

  “Screw him.”

  “Screw him?”

  Harmon’s reaction, the mocking laugh, and “say what?” face, is classic.

  “Yeah, screw him. It’s just another example of the white man, and the black man, keeping the red man down.”

  I have no idea where that came from.

  “Hey Geronimo, you need to give it a rest. Why don’t you dig deep down into your inner man, and get back to respectable?”

  “I’m feeling like I’m already six feet down, just waiting for someone to cover me with dirt, and here you are with a shovelful.”

  I lean back, close my eyes again and think.

  She was just a kid.

  The next thing I know, I shout it.

  “SHE WAS JUST A KID!”

  “That kid put a hole in your arm. A few more inches and she would have put you in a hole.”

  “She would have done me a favor.”

  I fight back. I need sympathy, and I have no one else to get it from. I’m counting on Harmon to pull me up. The others talk about how lucky I was, but I’m not so sure. Harmon softens his tone for a moment, and asks a curious question.

  “Did you cry?”

  Tough guy Harmon never asked me that before. He obviously wants to know how it feels in case it ever happens to him. I can’t answer. We just look at each other. Finally, to break the awkward silence, I comment that scientists believe the universe is permeated with dark matter. It’s a thing Harmon and I do when things get confused. We read science articles constantly. It helps to keep us sane.

  “Are you talking from my neighborhood?” he says.

  “The string theory says that tension strands fill the entire universe and vibrate. The resonating creates life. It could be part of the dark matter.”

  “The entropy theory says there is a degree of disorder in all systems.”

  I shrug.

  “Second Law of Thermodynamics, everything tends toward a greater disorder.”

  “Yeah, that’s where we come in as professional lawmen. Hey man, we got to go, or the old man’s going to have my butt,” Harmon says.

  He signals he is done playing, but I still need to play.

  “Aristotle, flat universe with the earth at the center; Copernicus, 1514, the sun is at the center of the very same universe; Christensen, 1676, light travels at a constant speed; Hubble, 1929, the galaxy is moving away; Hawking, the universe is here for us.”

  “Fairchild, today, get Roberts back to work,” Harmon said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “She was just a kid, man.”

  “Are you coming, Crazy Horse?”

  He miss quotes the words of the great warrior.

  “It is a good day to kick your ass. It is a good day to see Fairchild before he comes looking for you.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  I love Harmon Blackwell. He is there for me with no limits, or barriers. As he stands, he blocks whatever sunlight is shining through the shaded front windows. He looks interesting backlit. He leaves through the front door knowing it’s better to leave me alone for now. He’s gone before I can make another smartass remark. After the door closes, I see my Glock lying beside me on the table. How easy it would be to end the pain.

  * * *

  Her instincts told her to stay alert. She had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she rang the bell, and waited for someone to answer the door. Behind her, an incredibly intense, one-of-a-kind sunset faded from the horizon. A smiling and anxious, Thaddeus Abrams briskly opened one of the carved-glass, double doors. His greeting was warmhearted. She returned a shy hello. He invited her in. As she stepped inside, the smell of freshly cut flowers, and burning scented candles filled the foyer.

  Admiring the incredible craftsmanship that went into the construction of his home, Lori thought it was obvious a woman had designed, and decorated, the detailed interior of the residence. A man, however, had strongly influenced the exterior of the mansion, with its manicured lawn, stone and wrought iron work, and the steeply pitched roof. A visitor was given the overpowering impression of success and power.

  Lori felt uncomfortable and suspicious. Men, she had learned, could not be trusted. She hoped it wasn’t the case with Dr. Abrams, because he was the best at what he did, and she desperately needed his help. It just seemed odd that he needed to address her issues under less than clinical conditions. When he took her hands and held them for too long, the red flags went up in her mind.

  “Maybe, this isn’t the right time.”

  Lori pulled her hands free.

  Abrams spoke in his professional tone.

  “No, Lori, this is the right time. There are no distractions, or time constraints, like at the office. I often see patients here. I just need to find my notes.”

  Leading her into the den, he pointed to a leather sofa.

  “Please.”

  She remained standing.

  “Where is Mrs. Abrams?”

  The familiar sensual, sultry tone of Lori’s voice was missing.

  “Mrs. Abrams...is out.”

  He paged through his found notes.

  “She does a great deal of charity work for the American Cancer Society, as Vice-Chairperson, very devoted.”

  “I’m not sure I want to do this, not here.”

  Lori said it with a nervous undertone. Hearing she wanted to bail out, Abrams knew he had to make it clear why she had to stay. His next statement was more direct and to the point. He looked into her eyes.

  “I know Lori. I’ve been in the psychiatry business a very long time, and have heard more than my share of the dark sides of people to know there’s a dark side to you.”

  Startled by the remark, her eyebrows crushed in tight, and she felt a tremor in her hands.

  How could he know? What does he want?

  Maybe, she thought, he didn’t really know jack, and just wanted to frighten her into bed. Swirling the expensive scotch in his glass, he waited. Her denial didn’t come. When she turned away, he spoke, while he searched for a book on the shelf.

  “Your choice of words, your expressions, history—it all suggests murderer to someone who watches, and listens to them for a living. I’m supposed to cure them, but you know, and I know, there is no cure, right Lori? No, once that line has been crossed, and in spite of some well-intentioned statements of regret and remorse, a murderer always looks forward to killing again. It’s the control, domination, and the godlike decision-making that make it so enticing, so addicting. Wouldn’t you agree, Lori?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “And who is to say what’s right and wrong? Who is to judge? Murder is often seen as a means of accomplishing the goals of a shared societal belief system, whether it’s war, abortion, or euthanasia. I think you get my point.”

  After paging through the book he had retrieved from the bookshelf, he tossed it onto his rosewood desk. His glass was near empty, so he headed back to the bar. Lori knew she had to say something. She tried to do so as firmly and confidently as she could.

  “So Dr. Abrams, what do you want?”

  “A cold, calculated admission by default.”
>
  Then he hammered at her.

  “Let’s see, the direct approach, okay how’s this? You were sexually abused as a child. You didn’t know what to do. It was a family member you trusted and believed in. It was hard to justify that your own father could hurt you in such a way.”

  He saw fire in her eyes.

  Now that hit home.

  He fired another round.

  “Why did you let it continue? Why didn’t you tell someone? Why didn’t you tell your mother?”

  I knew what was happening to Emily.

  The painful memories took over her thoughts, but none of it was as Abrams said. Her father was a good man and had nothing to do with her traumas. It was her transposition of what her ex-husband did to Emily. Lori was furious, but held back biting hard on her lower lip.

  Abrams, you’re a fool.

  “You didn’t tell anyone, and all of the subsequent guilt, emotional scars and mental anguish, gave you countless reasons and excuses to kill.”

  “You could never understand, and I’m not going to debate my life with you.”

  In a businesslike tone, she asked again.

  “So what do you want? To get laid—some kind of perverted sex act?”

  A broad smile filled his face.

  “Now Lori, I fully admit that in my office, while you poured your heart out, I had some of my most memorable fantasies. I thought about doing you on my desk. In fact, I want you right now, but first things first.”

  He walked to the sofa and nonchalantly sat down. He motioned her to sit in the chair across from him. She took a seat as directed, not wanting to show any sign of aggressiveness. Instead, she wanted him to think she was completely vulnerable, and at his mercy.

  “Aren’t you afraid to be alone with me?”

  “Well, let’s think about that.”

  He looked off into the distance.

  “No, in fact, the thought of being alone with you excites me. It probably has something to do with my mundane and boring life as a psychiatrist.”

  He sipped at the scotch.

  “I’m even quite certain, while you have been listening to me, you have considered at least five different ways to kill me.”