Visions of Evil

by J. E. Neiman

  Jake stared at Allison's photo beside the article. He knew all about the bitch and her crippled twin. Years ago, while visiting his grandpa's farm, he'd met the Lewis family whose land abutted his grandpas. He sensed then that the three bitches were on to him about the old man's death. His cousin Gilbert had bungled killing the women a few years ago. Idiot. He reached into his pocket for his phone and dialed.

  "Yep."

  "Gilbert?" Jake lowered his voice. "I heard they let your perverted, fat ass out of prison. You've a job to finish. Get that old lady Lewis or I'll turn you in for screwing around with little kids." Jake clicked his phone shut.

  A wisp of cold air on the nape of his neck made him turn around. On the wall, directly behind him, a historical photo of Pearl, the woman who'd been murdered in the building, stared back at him. He gazed back at Allison's picture in the newspaper. The two women had the same piercing eyes.

  He threw a ten spot on the counter, grabbed his takeout and went to his car. Inside, he sipped his coffee and stared into space. Jake needed to think things out. He didn't know what Detective Garrison's new evidence could be. But just in case he'd left something at the scene where he'd killed Tiffany, he didn't dare return to California.

  Opening his briefcase, Jake removed the envelope with the ten grand in cash. He'd planned to add it to his stash in San Diego. Flipping through the one hundred dollar bills, he decided he'd use it to disappear into Mexico. Lots of bitches are waiting for me down there. He grinned.

  Jake glanced back at the restaurant as he pulled away from the curb. "Fuck you, Pearl. And you too, Allison Lewis. You may try to zero in on me. But I plan to eliminate you and your crippled sister anyway."

  Chapter 15

  Red Willow, Nebraska

  Susan awakened to Callie's snarl. The little Maltese always slept at the foot of her bed but now stood on the floor, his back arched.

  "What's up, Callie?" Susan felt tingling at the base of her neck.

  Callie's growls turned into warning barks. He ran out into the hall and toward the back of the house. Susan slipped into her robe and slippers, grabbed her crutch and crept out of the bedroom. The barking increased. The back door crashed open.

  “Goddamn dog," a man yelled.

  Susan cringed at the sound of a loud thump and Callie’s sharp yelp of pain. More thumps and wails of agony from her trusted companion rang through the house. A dreadful silence followed.

  She started to go to Callie but saw the image of a large man holding a hunter's knife. Susan ran the opposite way and out the front door. She heard footsteps behind her.

  When she escaped the ranch house to run down into the underground storm cellar, it seemed the best place to hide. But he'd followed her there, stumbling on the last step.

  “Shit," he gasped.

  The darkness surrounded her like a tomb. Straining to see through the pitch-blackness, Susan heard his hands rubbing the walls near the door, unaware that the light switch hung from a chain in the center of the small room. The man swore again. Finally, he shuffled back up the cellar stairs and slammed the weathered, wooden door.

  Thank God, he's gone. Or, did he just pretend to go, now waiting on the steps or outside the door? She wished she'd grabbed the shotgun before fleeing the house.

  Susan rose and slid behind the old trunk. Spider webs clung to her face and hair. As she brushed the sticky strands away, her robe caught on a nail protruding from a shelf of forgotten home-canned goods. The tug startled her, and she bit her lip to refrain from crying out. She pulled the garment free. The musty smell awakened memories of times she and her family had taken shelter there from windstorms and tornados. Once again, she sought refuge in the old cellar, this time from an assailant.

  She thought she heard a snake slithering on the ledge of a wall, but was not alarmed. She guessed it to be a harmless bull snake preying on an unsuspecting mouse.

  Susan placed her fingertips on each temple and attempted to use her keen intuition. Puzzling images raced through her mind. Years ago, she had learned "switch words" from the book "Secret," written by Mangan, and given to her by a dying woman she'd befriended. These words were helpful during times of stress or fear. She called upon them now.

  "Ho, ho," she whispered to help slow her breathing. Then, "Together, together," to increase her senses." Lastly, "Divine, divine," to intensify her psychic openness. A clear image came of the assailant limping away from the storm cellar.

  Susan crept toward the stairs. Even in the dark, she knew how many steps to the door from the old trunk. One, two, three . . . she paused. Something moved.

  She stood still, not moving a muscle, listening. Recognizing the movement to be a mouse scampering across the cool floor, she dared to breathe again.

  Susan heard the sound of a vehicle driving onto the gravel driveway. Could it be Charlie, her ranch manager? Sometimes when he had a day off, he'd come back to the place before dawn. Oh my God, I have to warn him about the maniac.

  She reached under the bottom step for the flashlight she had placed there last fall. She clicked it on, but the batteries were dead. "Geez," she mumbled.

  Susan climbed the dark stairs, pushed the heavy cellar door ajar and inhaled the night air flavored with the aroma of lilacs. Breathing in deeply, she exhaled to calm herself.

  In the driveway, she saw the vehicle with its motor running. It must be Charlie. She started toward it. The headlights snapped on, blinding her in the moonless night. A frightening image burst into her mind of the man in her own car. It was Gilbert. He would know that the sound of a vehicle in the driveway would bring her out of hiding. She spun and ran toward the creek bed beyond the house and cellar.

  Revving the engine, Gilbert raced over the lawn and through the lilac bushes toward Susan. A few steps before the bank, her crutch caught on a clump of grass. She fell to the ground. Leaping up, Susan used her crutch to help jump into the gravel creek. With the car a few feet behind, she turned and headed toward the bridge, splashing through a narrow stream.

  The vehicle rammed into the base of the creek bed, the horn wailed. Hoping Gilbert lay unconscious or dead, trapped against the steering wheel, Susan raced off. Her intense urgency provided new energy to reach the bridge, three hundred feet away.

  When she crossed under the thick planks of the overpass, the horn stopped. The wind blew through her long blond hair and whipped at her damp, pink bathrobe. A lonely pheasant cried out in the distance, interrupting the quiet of the night.

  She climbed onto a large flat boulder hidden by a concrete piling. Susan's side hurt, and she needed to catch her breath. Her right, the polio limb, felt numb and her left knee ached. She'd lost her slippers and her feet throbbed from the sting of imbedded Texas sandburs. Licking two fingers, she removed at least a dozen spikes from her bleeding soles. Bits and pieces of the sharp points remained and the pain persisted. She brushed some of the dirt and sand from the bloody cut on her knee.

  The cool night air chilled her body. Thunder echoed and lightning streaked across the western sky. A raindrop splashed on Susan’s forehead and ran down her face. It joined tears of fear, frustration and sadness for her little dog. She thought of Callie's brave but pathetic attempt to ward off Gilbert.

  Susan stood up on the boulder where she hid, peeking around the concrete piling. Closing her eyes, she saw a mental picture of Gilbert's fat body struggling to climb out of the car. He groaned but appeared calm and methodical, as if he had all the time in the world.

  She needed a plan. The closest neighbor, other than Gilbert's place, was six miles south. Susan decided to walk beside the dirt road to the livestock ramp near her south pasture. She could hide underneath it until Charlie or the wranglers arrived around dawn.

  Susan crawled up the embankment to flat ground. A flash of lightning showed the road to her right, about one hundred feet away. Oh, how she wished she had her cell phone and her brace. Her weak leg dragged on the ground with each step. Susan was thankful that at this moment, it felt like
a wooden post instead of a living limb.

  She entered a field of knee-high green wheat that rustled in the wind like a satin dress. Walking slowly, parallel to the road, she stopped every few steps to lean on her crutch, with senses sharply tuned for any movement or sound. Rain splattered her face, sliding down her neck and body. The muddy nightgown and matching robe clung to her.

  The wind began to howl, bending the grain shafts toward the ground with each gust. A bolt of lightning crashed and burned away the shadows, revealing an outline of a figure on the road.

  Susan fell to her knees, crouching within a row of wheat. The clean, wet dirt smelled safe. She lay flattened on the muddy ground. The rain began to pour.

  Chapter 16

  1875-Near Ft. Wicked, Colorado Territory

  A man offered me his hand, but I refused his help. I spit dirt out of my mouth as I stood.

  “I'm Mac," he said. He shook his head. "Sorry Sonny jumped you. He didn’t know you were a woman.”

  A short, man who looked to be in his thirties jumped up and down like a small child who had just captured a rabbit. "Gotcha. I gotcha," he yelled.

  The older man stepped around him and encased my hand in his as he spoke in a deep, soft voice. Not like Sonny who now hooted like a wild monkey. But I felt something ominous about Mac.

  Sonny touched Mac's shoulder. “I did good. Didn't I do good?"

  “Where'd you come from?" Mac asked. "You alone?"

  I didn’t answer and he motioned toward the campfire. My right hand inched towards Joey’s leather pouch. My fingers reached it and clasped the bone knife handle. I pulled it out slowly, keeping it hidden under my apron. I would not be a coward again.

  Mac escorted me into the camp circle.

  Sonny followed shouting, “I got her, Lulu.”

  A dark skinned, full-figured woman stood and strode toward us. She looked like she was Mama’s age, at least forty.

  "Calm down Sonny," she said. "Go sit by the fire.”

  Lulu pulled me closer and stared at me. “My God, child, you’re covered with blood." She touched my face. "Someone or something chasing you?”

  “She could be trouble," Mac said. "I’m going out to make sure she’s alone. Keep your eye on her.” He crept into the darkness outside the camp.

  A girl sauntered up to me. She stared into my eyes. “I think she’s scared." The girl smiled. “I’m Anna. That’s Kathleen by the fire. We call her Kate.”

  Lulu pushed my face from one side to the other. “You okay, child?”

  I shrugged and tears filled my eyes. I didn’t want to cry but I couldn’t, that I didn't need help.

  Lulu had moved behind me. “Mac said you might be trouble.” She grabbed my right arm and twisted it. Joey’s knife fell out of my hand onto the ground.

  I was too weak to fight or explain.

  She reached down and picked it up. “What terrible thing happened to you, child?”

  “My family . . . ." I caught my breath. “My family's been slaughtered.”

  Lulu’s big eyes peered around as if she was expecting someone to jump out from the darkness surrounding the camp.

  I put my head down and whispered, “I . . . I thought you were the murderers.”

  “Mercy me. You were going to attack us with that little knife?” Lulu asked with her hands on her hips and a look of skepticism on her face.

  I raised my chin. “Yes.”

  Anna stepped forward. “Well, we’re not murderers.” She stared at the knife. “Lulu can keep that safe for you.”

  "This is Kate," Anna said as she guided me to the campfire. Then, with a soft awe in her voice, “She’s from Ireland.”

  Kate's curly red hair framed her petite face. Her brown eyes sparkled in the fire light. She gestured that I sit on the crate beside her. Anna sat on my other side.

  Lulu came with a bowl of water and a rag. She began dabbing at my face. “Is this your blood?”

  “Maybe.” I didn’t want to tell her that most of it belonged to my mama, my grandma and my little brothers. Tears filled my eyes, and I clenched my teeth to fight them back. They wouldn’t stop. Anna put her arm around me from one side and Kate from the other. The two strangers held me while I cried.

  Mac returned to the camp. "Lulu, I’m hungry.” He pointed at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Pearl,” I said, not sounding like me at all. I didn’t recognize the coldness in my voice. It came from another girl, not the one who’d been angry with her mama for having to leave Oshkosh a month ago. That person didn’t exist anymore.

  Mac strolled over to me and raised my chin with his hands. “Hmmm, you're a pretty little thing.”

  His low, smooth voice sent chills up my spine.

  “You’ll fit in very well with my fancy girls here." He paused, spread his legs a bit and farted. "Won’t even change your name. Pearl will be fine.”

  I pulled my head away from his hands and coughed from the putrid smell. I glanced at Anna and Kate. Their faces revealed dread. I could sense their dark despair, probably from being one of his so-called fancy girls.

  I would never be anything of his. After a night's sleep, food and water, I would escape. I sneaked a quick look where Lulu had placed my knife. It glinted in the fire light on a ledge of the wagon.

  Chapter 17

  Red Willow, Nebraska

  Susan felt cold muddy water swirl around her body. The rainwater had created miniature rivers in the rows of green wheat where she lay flat. Lightening revealed an outline of a man. A voice called out through the wind.

  "Susan Lewis? Are you out there?"

  She pressed herself flatter to the ground. It didn't sound like Gilbert, but she didn't move. Perhaps he'd brought an accomplice with him, maybe someone he'd met in prison.

  "It's Deputy Sheriff Beckett. Susan, can you hear me?"

  A light beam filtered through the rain, illuminating a row of grain a few yards away. Susan rose up when she recognized the familiar voice. "Over here. Can you help me? Gilbert's trying to—"

  Beckett shined his bright flashlight into her face as he splashed through water puddles and mud.

  "We got the son-of-a-gun." Beckett stood beside her and helped her stand. "Gilbert's handcuffed and locked in our vehicle. You're safe now."

  Susan reached down for her mud-covered crutch. She shivered from the cold wind and rain. "He tried to kill me . . . run me over," she said with teeth chattering. "You sure he's—"

  "Yep. We found him on your front porch with a hunting knife. We wrestled him down. With a little painful persuasion, got him to tell us you'd headed out into this field. The bastard was just waiting for you to return to the house. Too fat and lazy to follow you."

  Susan's weak leg raged with pain. Grasping Beckett's shoulder, she struggled to take a few steps. "We? Who came with you and how did you know I needed help?"

  "Oh, Doc Swanson came with me. I saw him leaving his vet clinic on my way out of town. He'd had some kind of an emergency." Beckett cleared his throat and continued, "Allison called from Denver and said you weren't answering your phone. She and Madison were both concerned. They insisted I drive out here. Glad I did."

  Doc Swanson met them at the edge of the road and scooped Susan up into his arms. "I'll carry you into the house, little lady." His big arms carried her as if she were a kitten.

  "Did you check on Callie, Doc? Gilbert hurt him."

  "Honey, Callie has a broken leg but it's not a compound fracture. I put a quick splint on it and he's already hoping around on three legs. Gonna be fine. Bring him in tomorrow. We'll do x-rays just to double check."

  Doc had worked on the ranch for Susan's parents before he attended vet school at Colorado State University. He'd returned to Red Willow to set up a private practice. Now Susan found herself feeling safe for the first time since Gilbert had crashed through the back door of the house.

  "You need to get to the hospital to get checked Susan," Deputy Sheriff Beckett said in an authoritative voice.


  "Thanks, but no. Please take me inside. I'm just cold. Get Gilbert locked up for good."

  When they reached the front of the ranch house, Gilbert sat in the back seat of the sheriff's Yukon. He didn't raise his head as Susan and the two deputies passed.

  "Sure hate to leave you out here by yourself this far from town, Susan." Water trickled down Beckett's face.

  "Hey, you have the monster in custody. There's nothing out here but four legged animals. I can handle them. Besides, it's almost dawn. Charlie, my ranch manager, will be here soon along with two wranglers. We're working cattle today."

  The deputy hesitated at the front door of the ranch house. "Call Allison and Madison right away, okay?"

  "Of course. Thanks so much for catching that moron."

  "Not a problem."

  Susan went inside and gazed out the kitchen window as Deputy Beckett and Doc Swanson drove out of the yard. Gilbert Martin, in the back seat of the vehicle, turned his chubby face and stared at her.

  "A-hole," she muttered. "If you ever so much as come near me again, I'll shoot your sorry ass."

  The phone rang and Susan answered. It was Allison. "Hey sweetie, I'm fine. Muddy and wet though. They caught Gilbert. Let me call you back in an hour and I'll tell you the whole story."

  Susan hung, picked up Callie and kissed the top the little dog's head. An image of a man walking along a dusty road came into her mind. She heard distant Mariachis. Mexico? What's that about? The man turned. He had the face of a jackal.

  Chapter 18

  Lucero-Ciudad Juarez, Mexico

  Jake Tansey swung his legs out of bed and ambled over to the small window of the dilapidated motel where he'd stayed the night in Lucero, Mexico, about fifty miles south of El Paso. A dreadful noise had awakened him from a deep sleep. He gazed out at a rooster whose cockscomb was torn and scarred. Evidently, the cock had survived at least one competitive fight. The large fowl garbled out a "cock-a-doodle-do," which to Jake, sounded like "who the hell are you." Multi-colored hens clucked around the old rooster as they scratched in the dry dirt, creating a cloud of dust in the heavy air. Several snapped at flies while hovering over a pile of garbage.