Visions of Evil

by J. E. Neiman

  Embarrassed, I peered up at the towering mountain ranges that rose on both sides of the valley. They were watching too. I felt trapped between the two giants as they glared down at everything below.

  The coach driver dropped us off at Father Dyer's rugged cabin, where we ate crackers and beef jerky. Then we climbed into his buggy, and he showed us the location where he wanted to build his new church. His face lit up as he spoke.

  He drove us to the main street and stopped in front of a plain, two-story building. A faded-yellow painted sign, dangling from one chain, flapped in the wind. It read, "The Prospector Bar and Grill."

  Father Dyer pointed at the store. "One of my parishioners passed on a few months ago. Left this to me." He handed Levi a document. "Now, it's yours."

  Levi helped me out of the buggy. We were speechless.

  Father Dyer had told us before we left Georgetown, that he had a place for Levi's medical practice but he'd not mentioned the bar and grill.

  Our surprise and wonder caused the minister to laugh.

  "I'll be over for dinner in a week," he said, driving off.

  I hurried inside. Round tables and chairs sat haphazardly on the wooden floor. The place was dusty and covered with mice droppings.

  A large, polished-oak bar divided the place in half, and a rectangular stained-glass mosaic hung over it. The artwork depicted a scene of a prospector panning for gold next to a flowing blue river. The colors created eerie patterns on the walls and floors.

  The upstairs living quarters were much larger than ours in Georgetown ─ three bedrooms instead of one.

  Levi followed me as I investigated our new place of business and home. He peered into the largest bedroom. "Hmmm. Room for a family," he said, fondling my behind.

  "Or it could be a busy doctor's office." I hugged him and pulled him to the window to see the view.

  It was stunning, but I felt a ripple of dread. I wondered if Jake could find me here.

  Chapter 66

  Sedona, Arizona

  A buzzer awoke Dr. Morrell from a brief nap in the on-call room. At the stainless steel sink, he stepped on the pedal valve and washed his arms and hands with antibacterial soap. After he threw a clean white smock around his shoulders, he entered into the brightly lit semicircular room, nicknamed The Pit. He glanced through the one-way glass at the solemn faces in the emergency room's waiting area. Each person awaited the impending news of his or her loved one's medical condition. Grace, the head nurse on duty came toward him. "Looks like we've received guests before breakfast, Grace."

  "Sorry I had to wake you, Doctor. My shift's almost over. Twelve more hours for you." She snapped open her silver-metal notebook. "It always happens. They all show up at once."

  Dr. Morrell shrugged. "We'll handle it. Any immediates?"

  "Take your choice. Eczema over there." Grace motioned toward a mint-green closed curtain. Behind it, a baby cried. "Ingrown toenail in three, nausea behind curtain —"

  The patch radio speaker near the trauma room exploded with sound. "En-route with female, approximately thirty . . ."

  Dr. Morrell jogged to the radio as the background noise of sirens and hurried commands startled everyone in the area. He picked up the receiver.

  "Head and body injury, massive trauma . . . BP ninety-five dropping. Vitals fair. ETA four minutes."

  "Follow procedures." Dr. Morrell wrote on the wall board as he spoke. "Guardian Air notified?"

  "10-4. Guardian ETA twenty."

  Another medic's voice yelled into the radio. "Doc, unable to open airway.”

  "10-4. I'll notify Barrows in Phoenix."

  Dr. Morrell scrubbed his hands again and put on latex gloves. The entrance doors crashed open, and paramedics wheeled the victim into the trauma room. He had fourteen years of experience as an attending ER physician at the University Hospital in Las Vegas, plus two years of volunteer medic duty in Iraq. He thought nothing could catch him off guard, but when his eyes fell on the near-naked young woman, he and his staff became silent.

  The inflicted violence was appalling. Her face was beaten to near pulp. Pieces of the jaw bone emerged through one cheek. Her wrists were tied together in front of her.

  Paramedics moved the battered body in one fluid motion onto the table. The ER team worked both sides of the bed hooking up machines. The stillness in the room was interrupted only by the movement of equipment, beeps from the cardiac monitor and guttural moans from the patient.

  Dr. Morrell did a quick evaluation of the woman. Her skin was pallid and clammy. The back of her head bore a gaping wound. A swollen belly indicated internal bleeding. Blood seeped from her vagina.

  Nurse Grace tore open another sterile pack. She handed him a choice of two different sizes. He grabbed the smaller unit.

  Two teeth flew out with his first powerful pull. He finished removing the suture by using scissors with haste. The airway had to be opened as quickly as possible.

  "Dr. —?"

  "What?" he snapped.

  "Massive hemorrhaging from the vagina."

  "O-negative transfusion now. Can't wait for lab results. Vitals?"

  A tech answered, "BP down to eighty-five, pulse irregular."

  Dr. Morrel snipped the nylon cord that bound her wrists. It appeared to be monofilament fishing line and had cut through to the bone. Prying open her mouth he pushed the tongue to one side, lifted her jaw, and slipped a tube into the trachea allowing oxygen to reach her lungs.

  "Blood pressure?"

  "Dropping . . . eighty over—" The nurse stopped. "Down to seventy . . ."

  Suddenly, the heart monitor pierced the room with a steady tone. A green flat line with tiny spikes glowed on the screen.

  "Still have a flutter!" Dr. Morrell began resuscitation, hitting the woman's sternum with the flat of his hand.

  "Defib," he shouted, placing the paddles on her chest. "Clear!"

  The staff held their arms in the air and stepped away from the bed. The body arched upward from the three-hundred joules of electricity as it slammed into the woman.

  "Pulse?"

  "Faint."

  "Let's try 340. Clear!"

  "Nothing, Doctor."

  "Goddammit!" Dr. Morrell searched the victim's body for spontaneous breathing or movement, but saw none. The woman lay on the table like a broken, life-sized doll.

  MacDougall's hypothesis from the 1900's ran through the doctor's mind. At the exact time of death, a person's body will lose 21 grams: the same weight as a hummingbird or a chocolate bar. MacDougall believed this was the loss of the soul.

  A hand on his shoulder brought Dr. Morrell back to the moment.

  "Doctor, you need to pronounce," Nurse Grace said.

  He emitted a long sigh and glanced at the large clock on the wall. "TOD 7:15 a.m."

  The paramedics and techs dispersed, leaving the doctor and the nurse alone. Grace cleansed the wounds. The victim's face became a bit more human.

  Dr. Morrell gazed into the slate-blue eyes that stared right though him. "My God, it's Dawn Piper. My neighbor's girl."

  He thought of his own daughter, a lawyer in Boston, who had attended high school with Dawn. What kind of a monster could do this? And why?

  Dr. Morrell's first thought was to have the staff wash the body and straighten the room in anticipation of the family identifying the body. Picking up a moist sterile cloth, he wiped the victim's forehead with gentle movements.

  "Excuse me doctor. Stop." Agent Westcott stood at the entrance of the trauma room. "You're washing away trace evidence."

  Dr. Morrell turned to the authoritative voice. "She's my best friend's daughter."

  Westcott moved beside the doctor. "I'm sorry. Name?"

  "Dawn Piper. I'd like to be the one to notify her parents." Dr. Morrell stared down at his blood-splattered shoes.

  "Of course. But first brief me of her injuries."

  Dr. Morrell hesitated. "I need a moment to —"

  Rita entered the trauma room. "Oh Lord. Is it
. . .?"

  Westcott blocked her with one arm. "Agent, please."

  She pulled away and stepped in front of Westcott. Her gaze swept from the woman's bare feet up the body, stopping at the torn bloody flesh of the face.

  Dr. Morrell cleared his throat, turned and recognized Rita. She had been one of the Red Rock Trio, as they called themselves: Dawn, Rita, and his daughter Beth.

  He pointed to a torn, blood-stained piece of cloth on the floor. He knew Rita would recognize the meaning of the sunflowers on the fabric. Dawn always wore some form of the flower: jewelry, barrettes, shoes, apparel. He remembered how she'd say, "Sunflowers turn in my direction in the morning and follow me till dark."

  Rita flinched, moaned like an injured animal and moved close to Dawn's face. Leaning over her friend, tears rolled down her cheeks. "She's cold," she whispered. "We need to cover her."

  Westcott pulled Rita around to face him. "I know this is difficult but you can't contaminate evidence. Please get Allie and Maddie in here. Perhaps they can pick up on something─"

  Rita pushed his arms away. "Okay, but we need to find the animal that did this."

  "I know, but the twins may be able to center on the perp's location," Westcott said.

  She hurried out the trauma room nearly running into a man in a royal blue jacket and hat. "Without stopping, Rita said, "Excuse me."

  "No problem, Rita."

  Chapter 67

  Sedona, Arizona

  Rita stopped at the wash-up sink near the trauma unit. Stepping on the flow pedal, she splashed cold water on her face as if to wash away the image of Dawn's battered lifeless body. She needed to clear her mind and put her emotions aside. Westcott would remove her from the case if he believed she could not handle Dawn's death. Nevertheless, she allowed her tears to merge into the swirling stream. Long ago, Yeats wrote, "things fall apart." A quote she often used to explain intolerable events to others. But the three words did not help the grief and horror she felt. She reached for a handful of paper towels from the dispenser above the sink and blotted her tears and the water away.

  Something pierced into Rita's thoughts, like a painful splinter in the palm of her hand. She suddenly remembered the brief encounter with the man, the paramedic, in the hallway. Rita replayed it in her mind. He had muttered something. Her name?

  She did a slow turn, searching the corridor to see if she could spot him. He had worn a black baseball cap. The other medics were bareheaded. She moved toward the staff station in the center of the room.

  "Excuse me. Are any of the paramedics still around?"

  An ER tech looked up from studying a file folder. "No, they all left quite a while ago."

  Rita hurried into the waiting lounge and saw Dan standing near the entrance doors, arms crossed in front of him.

  "Where are they?" She scanned the room. "Allie and Maddie?"

  "Hey. It's okay. Maddie's in the restroom. How's the vic?"

  "She's . . . dead." Rita rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "My friend, Dawn. Murdered." She glanced nervously around. "Dan you need to keep the twins close."

  "Maddie's inside." He nodded to the bathroom door to his right. "Allie's around the corner. Water fountain."

  "I didn't see Allie back there." Rita bolted to the bathroom door, pounding on it. "Maddie?"

  Dan went around Rita, and then returned. "Shit, there're two ways in. Evidently, the staff uses it from the other side. Back entrance's locked too."

  "Maddie." Rita yelled again. She heard running water.

  The tech from the desk walked toward them. "Shhh. Keep it down."

  "Get the key." Dan flipped his blazer open to reveal his FBI badge and revolver.

  The man stood with his mouth open.

  "Now, or I'll shoot the lock off."

  The tech ran to the desk and returned with a brass loop holding a key.

  Dan grabbed it just as Allie walked around the corner. "What's going on?"

  Rita's face relaxed but her voice was taut. "Allie, please stay together." She turned back toward the bathroom. "Maddie's not responding."

  The door of the room creaked open. Maddie stared at them. "What's wrong?"

  Dan sighed. "You didn't answer."

  "Sorry, I didn't hear you over the noisy fan."

  Rita stepped forward. "I saw someone . . .," she paused. "Westcott wants you, Allie and Maddie, back in the trauma room. The woman's dead. Murdered. It's Dawn." Her voice caught in her throat. "He wants your input."

  Allie's face fell. "Oh God, Rita. I'm so sorry."

  "I'll walk them back, Rita." Dan put a hand on her shoulder. "You don't need to see your friend—"

  She pushed it away. "I need to be there. I want to see and hear everything." Rita circumvented the three. "Stay close behind me."

  Chapter 68

  Sedona, Arizona

  Dr. Morrell nodded to Allie and Maddie as they entered the trauma room. "I'm taking fingernail scrapings for the Medical Examiner," he explained. "He's on his way."

  The contrast of the stark white walls against the bloody, mutilated body seemed surreal to Allie. She turned to see Rita leaning against the door frame with a cheek pressed against the metal. Dan stood in the middle of the entrance with his back to the room.

  "I'm sorry to bring you back here, Allie and Maddie, but I hoped you might be able to offer clues on who did this and where they might be." Westcott stepped away from the body.

  The room reeked of antiseptic mixed with the copper scent of blood. All the warmth drained from Allie's body. "Jake did this." Her voice was faint even though she wanted to scream out her contempt for what the monster had done. She gained her composure and spoke louder. "I'm certain. Jake Tansey did this." Allie touched her sister's wheelchair. "Your initial reaction, Maddie?"

  "That a psychopath did this. A snake in the grass, that Dawn had briefly trusted." Maddie rolled her chair toward the door then turned. "Cause of death, doctor?" she asked.

  "A severe injury to the back of her head may have caused her to bleed out. There are also acute ligature marks on her neck. Could be the combination of the two, plus shock. The ME will have to determine."

  Allie hesitated. "I see a tall Indian statue near where the perp did this."

  "I see it too. And there's a dark mist around the area." Maddie's hands shook.

  Allie put a hand on Maddie's shoulder. "It's a plum colored fog." The image dissipated. She looked at her sister.

  "Gone for now," Maddie said.

  The room was silent for a few seconds.

  “That could be the Royal Inn on 179. It’s painted a plum color,” Rita said. “We’ll get someone over there right away.”

  Westcott pointed at the victim's legs. "Notice the dirt ground into her knees. And her feet are covered with pebbles and muck. Looks like she tried to go for help after he dumped her."

  "On her knees. Oh God." Maddie placed one hand on her stomach and shuddered. "But why dump her near the safe house?"

  "Because he wanted to make sure we found her," Allie said, "and to let us know what he would do to us." She turned to the door. "I'm sorry, Rita. That shouldn't be your friend there."

  Rita raised one hand in a stop gesture. "Shouldn't be anyone."

  Allie noticed the blood stained fabric on the floor. "It would be helpful if we could take something of Dawn's. Is that a piece of her clothing?" She pointed at it.

  "Somehow that fabric ended up there. That piece and this tiny remnant were caught between her palms." Westcott pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket. "This goes to the lab. You can take the already contaminated cloth from the floor," he said, using tweezers to pick the cloth from the floor, inserting it into another sack. He handed it to the Allie.

  Westcott touched Dr. Morrell's shoulder. "Thank you for doing all you could to save the girl, doctor. Rita'll stay until the ME arrives." He stepped toward the door.

  Dr. Morrell followed them. "Please be careful."

  Westcott stopped beside Rita. "Are
you up to this or do you want Dan to stay?"

  "I'm okay."

  "The ME will telephone with his initial report. Oh, a Sedona detective is en-route to be with you."

  "You've called in the locals?" Rita looked surprised.

  "Backup. We need to play it safe."

  "There isn't a safe place from the devil, Westcott."

  Chapter 69

  As Jake turned east onto Highway 89A, he thought about Rita glancing at him outside the trauma room. A competent detective would have not let the death of a friend impinge on her duties or awareness. He hoped the FBI would send her skinny-ass back home. "One less idiot to get in my way," he muttered.

  "Damn it!" he yelled, "I missed the freaking excitement." Jake threw the baseball hat he had worn to cover his short bleached-blonde hair into the backseat with rage. The cap and the jumpsuit he had stolen from the ambulance after the bitch was hauled in, allowed him to enter the ER facilities with ease. However, it had taken far too long to slip into the paramedic uniform over his cloths inside his SUV. By the time he reached the trauma room door, his audience stood motionless and spoke in whispers around Dawn's body.

  You can always tell when people are dead, he thought, everyone talks in hushed tones. He had learned that early in life when he visited hospitals, rest homes or mortuaries with his father, Reverend Tansey. It seemed idiotic then and even more so now. "The dead cannot hear you," he yelled.

  Even though he was disappointed he had missed the tension, excitement and the reactions to his handiwork, he knew he had left a powerful impression on the candy asses and the know-it-all FBI agents. He bet not one of them would ever forget Jake Tansey.

  When he was twelve, he told his psychoanalyst, "I do what good boys want to do." The doctor seemed shocked and asked Jake to explain. "You know exactly what I mean asshole. That's why you sit there and listen . . . you love to hear what even you would like to do." The doc refused to see him after that appointment.

  He needed to ditch the SUV or change the license plate. Rita would probably get her shit together and recall seeing him in the facilities. Jake had noticed security cameras in the ER parking lot. Last thing he wanted was to be pulled over on a warrant by a peon cop, in this jerk-water town, at least not until he had eliminated Allie and Madison. He still hoped to escape to Mexico, but if not he didn't give a damn who caught him or when.