Visions of Evil

by J. E. Neiman

  “How about hot buttered rum before going out in the cold?"

  “No thanks." Jake saw the waitress stare at the sleepy looking teen. He needed to divert her attention. "Looks like you hit the slopes today. Skiing good?”

  “For spring, it's great. We're to get new powder tonight."

  “Honey, did you hear that?" Jake kissed Molly on the forehead, then handed the waitress two twenty dollar bills. “Keep the change. Hey, where did the hostess in the long dress go?”

  “I’m sorry. We didn't have a hostess tonight. When we do, they wear blue jeans and a white shirt." The waitress raised one eyebrow and grinned. "Perhaps you saw Pearl's spirit.” She giggled and left.

  Jake watched the ski bum's fat ass bounce like two piglets in a bag. He grimaced. He didn’t appreciate her lame joke about not having a hostess tonight.

  "I gotta pee," Molly mumbled.

  He needed to get her out of the bar. "In a minute, sweetie."

  "Gotta pee . . . bad," she whined.

  Jake resumed helping Molly put on her parka, and then walked her out of the bar onto Main Street. "Just get into the car," he snarled. He pushed her in and leaned close to her ear. "You're going to do a lot more than pee."

  Chapter 4

  1875-Near Fort Wicked, Colorado Territory

  I heard the first cry while I squatted amidst thick bushes near the South Platte River. The long wail brought my head up and around. I finished relieving myself, pulled my skirt down around my legs and stood, looking in the direction of the sound. Nothing but the sloping riverbank covered with waving prairie grass. It must have been a raven or a hawk since there were so many of the big birds out here. I hated them. In fact, I hated everything about this country.

  It had been over a month since my mama had come into my room at bedtime to break the dreadful news.

  "Pearl, we're leaving Oshkosh. I've traded my remaining jewelry for a wagon and horses. In the morning, we'll stock up with supplies and go."

  "But Mama . . ." I stopped. At fifteen, I was not supposed to argue. I took a deep breath before asking, "Where're we going?"

  "Denver. Aunt Bea will put us up until you and I find work."

  My mama had tears in her eyes, but at that moment, I didn't care. "We can't. I don't want to quit school."

  "We've got no choice. We'll travel with a party of wagons to Julesburg. Then we'll be on our own."

  She walked out of my room with stooped shoulders. A once proud and respected storeowner, my mother, Mrs. Joesph Arnold was now a debt-ridden widow with two sons, a teenage daughter and another child on the way. The horrific fires a few months ago, that nearly consumed Oshkosh, destroyed our family's successful clothing store. Worse, my brave papa had died trying to save it.

  Now we're nearly three days from Denver and I'm miserable. I hate walking day in and day out beside the wagon. Mama looks like she's carrying more than one baby, and we pray that she can wait until we arrive at Aunt Bea's to give birth. Today, she rode on the bench seat next to Grandma. My two brothers, Ben, six and Joey, eleven, always walked beside me.

  This morning we glimpsed the snowy peaks of the Colorado Rockies for the first time. I knew the moment Mama pointed out Long's Peak that something terrible was going to happen. A heavy sense of dread came over me.

  Mama didn't feel well enough to make it to Fort Wicked, as planned. We set up camp near the river in the late afternoon even though I’d told Mama that his place was full of dread. My brothers and I scrounged for cow chips and dry grass for our campfire. Grandma volunteered to cook stew while Mama stretched out on the ground near the wagon. I'd hurried to the river to fetch water.

  My thoughts reminded me that I needed to finish my task and return to camp. I dipped the wooden bucket into the fast moving stream. It was five or six feet deep in places, and about 30 feet across with a small island filled with trees and bushes in the center. Compared to the waterways around Oshkosh, Wisconsin, the South Platte River was only a creek, not a river. The memory of my home State made my heart sink.

  A vision filled my mind of my mama struggling with someone. I dropped the pail and ran back toward our camp. It was then I heard the second scream.

  Chapter 5

  Breckenridge, Colorado

  Jake glanced at his reflection from the bed in the mirrored wall. With his back arched he resembled an animal about to finish killing its prey. He shuddered. The girl groaned under him but did not move. It was four in the morning. This was the third time tonight he'd raped her and each time he'd been rougher. In brief moments of consciousness, she had pleaded for him to stop. Her fear and begging pushed him to pound harder. Yet something was lacking. He lusted for the peak of excitement he experienced last year, when the young one died beneath him. He pushed the thought out of his mind, as he didn't want this bitch to croak at Eagle's Nest. That needed to take place somewhere else and he knew plenty of secluded mine shafts to dump her body between Breckenridge and California.

  Something smelled revolting. His hand wandered down the girl's scrawny body touching her small breasts, flat stomach and skinny legs. Jake felt something wet and sticky. He rolled off her and smelled his palm. It reeked of blood and excrement. "Shit. You're bleeding and messing up the bed. Must've gave you too much of that stuff."

  He needed to wash off the filth from this piece of trash before he vomited. Gagging, he lifted his legs onto the white, bear rug that lay on the floor beside the bed. The girl lay motionless.

  Jake showered in the master bathroom. Flecks of gold gleamed from the black marble on the floors and walls. Six nozzles sprayed hot water over his sweaty body. He grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed his flesh as if he had lice. Jake chided himself with hot remorse. Why did I pick this piece of trash up? She's dumber than a chicken. And I hate chickens.

  He turned off the water twisting the eagle head faucet handle and stepped out of the glass enclosure. Steam misted the mirrors. Jake wiped the glass with his hand and smiled at himself. "I'm such a handsome son of a bitch," he said as he combed his fingers through his hair. He slipped into a plush white robe waiting on a wall hook and glanced down to see an eagle on the pocket. "A little overkill on the goddamned birds."

  When he opened the bathroom door, the skinny one was moaning and trying to sit up in bed. "Lie down," he yelled. He'd have to burn the soiled sheets and dump her ass somewhere tomorrow.

  Jake slammed the door to the master bedroom and strode into the large sunken great room. The thought of the girl made him sick to his stomach. He would sleep the rest of the night on the huge couch near the glowing fireplace. If the bitch didn't die tonight, she would in the morning.

  Chapter 6

  1875-Near Ft. Wicked, Colorado Territory

  More gunshots cracked through the air, followed by victorious howls of amusement. I scurried to the sound. Could it be Indians?

  Dropping to my knees at the top of the hill, I peered over. Three men on horseback circled our camp, firing into the sky. White men, not Indians. I squinted against the setting sun searching for my family, but I could not see them.

  I scanned the hillside on the opposite side of the valley, praying that my loved ones were watching from there. Then I realized it was my mama or my grandma who had screamed. "Please God. No," I whispered.

  The three men continued laughing and shouting to one another as they raced around. Were they robbing us? If so, there was little for them to take.

  A breeze brought the smell of Grandma's stew that she had set over the fire to cook. I spotted Ben's quilt Grandma had made him when he was born. A few feet beyond Ben's blanket, something lay sprawled on the ground. In horror, I realized it was my grandma. Her faded gray dress with pale-yellow flowers was pulled up and crumpled around her white hair. A wave of sickness hit me.

  A man with a beet-red beard, riding a chocolate colored stallion, started up the hill toward my hiding place. I ducked. "Jake we've had our fun. Let's go," he shouted.

  "Naw. Red, get your ass back here. I'm hungry.
Let's eat."

  Red, the man near me, muttered something and rode back to the camp. I flattened myself tightly to the earth and bit my lip to keep from crying out.

  A few moments later, a movement from the opposite hillside caught my eyes. Ben and Joey ran toward the wagon. Joey held a rifle in one hand and a rabbit in the other. There was no way they could see the men now gathered by the fire. I wanted to stand up and shout, wave my arms and warn them, but I didn't.

  Joey slowed as he stared at something out of my sight. He dropped the rabbit and pushed Ben back. He pointed at a large clump of trees behind them. Ben didn't want to go. I could tell by the defiant tilt of his head. At last, he disappeared into the dense greenery.

  One of the men with wild looking, dark-brown hair stood and peeked around the wagon. Joey saw him, took aim and fired. The shot whizzed into the air and created a loud boom that echoed across the valley. I tried to stand but instead flattened myself on the hillside like one of the rocks beside me.

  The man laughed at my brother's miss. Joey fired another shot, but that was all. The other two men grabbed their guns. Their shots riddled his body. "No," I screamed. I covered my ears but I couldn't block out the sound.

  The shots stopped. Joey lay still on the ground twenty feet from our wagon. The wild haired man ambled over to Joey's body, raised his pistol and put a final shot in his head.

  I prayed that Ben would remain hidden in the trees. But I saw him climb out of his hiding place and heard his scream filled with agony. His howl of rage reached up to me and tore a hole in my heart. The three men turned and opened fire.

  "No," I screamed again. Yet this time my cry was silent. It felt like a whisper trapped in my throat.

  The wild haired man who'd put his gun to Joey's head now did the same to Ben. The vibration of the shot echoed through my soul. Tears streamed down my face, but still I couldn't move.

  The men sauntered back to our camp. They grabbed plates and spoons, laughing as they scooped food onto dishes. They sat in a circle feeding themselves with my grandma's body sprawled a few feet away.

  I scanned the hills around me, looking for my mother. Where was she? Maybe she'd followed me to the river. She could be picking berries at the water's edge and hadn't heard a thing.

  The men shoved the food into their mouths and then the wild haired man strolled over to my grandma and kicked at her body. This act released the hold on my body. I stood without thinking. The man's head whipped around. I dropped to the ground with such force it knocked the breath from me.

  I heard excited voices as the men mounted their horses. They'd seen me.

  I hiked up my skirts and ran toward the river. Ahead were oak trees and thick bushes beside the deep water. I ducked behind a thicket just as the men crested the hill. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my lungs fought to take in air.

  Overhead a strong wind shook the branches. I prayed the noise would cover the sounds of my movement. I crept backwards until I reached the water's edge, dropping one leg into the cold water and then the other. Pushing my skirts against my body, I slipped into the river with only my head above the dark liquid.

  The riders came down the hill working their way back and forth, shouting to each other. The man who'd shot my brothers in the head wore pointed silver-toed boots. Even in the dim light, they glowed.

  "Jake," one of the men shouted to the silver-toed booted man near me. "Why waste time looking for this one?"

  Jake's voice was raspy. "Cause Eli, you dumb ass . . . I wanta screw her." He paused when his horse stumbled. "She'd be nice and tight."

  It was getting dark. The other men circled among the oak trees moving closer to Jake. I hung onto a submerged branch, waiting for them to see me. I prayed.

  Directly in front of the thicket I'd first hid behind, Jake sat still in his saddle. I knew he was listening for me to make a sound. Finally, he said, "Bitch probably drowned."

  "Yeah. Let's hightail it to Wicked," Red said.

  I recognized Red's voice from earlier and trembled from my efforts not to move. The three mumbled to their horses and rode away single-file.

  Trying not to make any noise, I pulled my shivering body out of the river. Branches pulled at my hair, and a thorny bush snagged my face. I felt warm blood flowing down my cheeks. I wiggled out from under the thickets and lay in the dirt, breathing deeply for a few minutes, listening for their return. I heard nothing.

  I crept up the hill, dragging my soggy skirts, and peeked over at our camp. The men were on the move again. I cowered when they rode below me. Eli, the last man, led our two packhorses. Both animals were loaded with supplies they'd stolen from our wagon. I stared after them until they disappeared from my sight.

  I raced in the direction of our camp towards flames and black smoke. Our wagon was ablaze and all our things burned like torches in the dusk.

  "Mama," I shouted searching for her. My two brothers lay still where they'd been shot. I ran to them and reached down to touch their bloody bodies. The fire crackled behind me. In horror, I stood there holding my blood-covered hands before me. "Mama," I cried out again.

  Chapter 7

  Red Willow, Nebraska

  Susan Lewis buzzed the engine of her Cessna 182 over the small town of Red Willow, Nebraska, knowing that it would annoy many of the residents. She dipped the plane's wings from side to side and laughed. "Now you'll have something new to gossip about."

  The checkerboard pattern of the dark-green winter-wheat fields and the browns of cultivated crops could be hypnotizing from a thousand feet above ground, traveling at one-hundred-forty miles per hour. Today, Susan was thankful for the straight country roads below, as they helped with her version of IFR, "I Fly Roads" instead of Instrument Flight Rules. The low cloud cover was way below legal VFR or Visible Flight Rules.

  The monotony of the landscape in Red Willow County seemed like a mind-control drug. After time, most residents of the area displayed an arrogance and attitude that said theirs was the only way. Susan never wanted to be locked into any set pattern or mold. That was one reason she loved to fly--to get away from the sameness of it all. Whenever possible she flew in circles, figure eights or spirals.

  The town passed below her in seconds and she located her property in the distance, straddling the Kansas-Nebraska state line. The ranch house along with numerous buildings, stockyards and, of course, the airplane hangar was partially hidden by large elm and cottonwood trees. Their place was nearly the center of their four-thousand acre spread.

  Susan descended through patches of ground fog and flew the down-wind pattern, parallel to the runway. Her cell phone rang on final approach. She glanced at the caller ID and clicked on the speaker. "Allie. I'm landing right now," she shouted. "Have a few mud puddles to dodge . . . hang on . . ."

  "Shit, Mom. It's late afternoon." Allie sounded anxious. "And you're flying?"

  On the ground and taxiing to the hangar, Susan laughed. "Would you rather I drive one hundred fifty miles round trip to Grand Island?" Her voice vibrated due to the rough ride on the small wheels of the plane. "On second thought . . . don't answer that question." She pushed in the throttle to full stop in front of the hangar. "I had a low ceiling with a few fog banks but a smooth ride. Doctor appointment and needed supplies." Both of her daughters, Allison and Madison, worried about her flying but Susan felt safer in the air than driving the two-lane roads from the ranch to Grand Island. "Where are you, Allie?"

  "I'm on I-70 headed back into Denver. They found Pauly, the missing boy. The one I'd visualized at the bottom of a dark hole." Allie's voice faded before she cried out, "Mom, he'd been decapitated, then thrown into a shit hole."

  "Oh God, Allie. Who could do such a thing?" Susan climbed out of her plane, grimaced and leaned to adjust her orthopedic leg brace.

  "You're coming back from the crime scene, aren't you?" Susan closed her eyes and tried to think of something to comfort her daughter. "Allie, the child's family will be forever grateful that you helped find the
little guy. And now the crime scene investigators may find evidence to find the sicko who did it."

  "I hope so, Mom." She hesitated. "I'm sorry to dump this on you. I can only share things like this with you and Maddie. And she's at work."

  "Hey, call me anytime." She paused, picked up a rock and threw it at an old metal granary, hoping to release some of the emotions she felt. "Allie, I'm proud of you."

  "Thank you. Mom . . . I worry about you being alone. Now that the Thompsons moved away, your closest neighbors are three miles away. Is Charlie on the place?"

  "Not today. I gave him the afternoon off. We finished branding the new steers yesterday." She paused. "Allie, when you coming out?"

  "Soon. I need to finish some things here in Denver. I may drive out before I go to Phoenix on a new case."

  "Hey, I've got to get my baby into the hangar. It looks like rain's coming."

  A click with no response indicated that one of their phones had lost cell service.

  Before moving her plane into the hangar, Susan unloaded supplies from the cargo door. She pushed her plane into its nest and pressed the electric button. The large hangar doors rattled shut, but above the noise, she heard something else. She walked around the edge of the building and saw a car driving out of her yard onto the road, throwing gravel in the air.

  "Damn. That looks like Gilbert Martin's old clunker," she murmured. "Couldn't be. He's in prison." She pulled her cell phone from a jean pocket and dialed Sheriff Kruger. "Sheriff, its Susan Lewis. I think I saw Gilbert just drive out of my yard."

  "Well," the sheriff hesitated. "Gilbert's out on parole, but he's to stay away from you folks."

  "What? Why didn't you let me know? And more importantly, what are you going to do to keep him away from us?"

  She heard someone talking to the sheriff in the background. There was laughter.

  "Hey . . . we got complaints that you buzzed the town today. Is that a fact?"