When the Day of Evil Comes

by Melanie Wells

  Hi, I’m the psychologist your husband is blaming for your sons suicide.

  So sorry for your loss, but could you put your grief aside and help me, because my career is going down the tubes?

  Have you seen a scary white man with a big slash on his back?

  I pulled my Neon up to the family gate and cranked down my window to press the button. The gate opened before I even got my hand out of the window. So much for my theory that there were no video cameras at this entrance. I looked around for the cameras, but never spotted them. Which made me even more nervous. I was tired of the continuing unease of being watched. And how did I know Joe Zocci wasn’t lying in wait for me, watching my little smiley-face flag as I curved along the driveway to his home?

  The house was enormous and sang of old money, which intimidated me immediately, of course. Grey stone walls were laced with ivy. The slate roof was speckled with the unmistakable signs of pennanence—blue-green lichen, small patches of bright green moss, and coppery water stains. Gargantuan marble planters guarded the doorway, each spiked with a spiral, groomed topiary and spilling over with more ivy.

  Mine was the only car in the drive. I shoved the door open with my shoulder, grabbed my bag and what remained of my courage, and stepped onto the flagstone walk. The front door opened before I made it up the steps.

  I’d counted on a little time in the foyer to gather my thoughts. I had pictured being greeted by a balding man named Chauncy, I think. As it was, I found myself face-to-face with the tiny woman from the newspaper photograph, her face aged exponentially since the photo was taken.

  She looked like a child in the cavernous doorway, not more than five feet and change to her slight frame, her careful hair and makeup somehow making her seem smaller and more vulnerable. She wore a red velour Chanel sweat suit. I didn’t even know Chanel made sweat suits.

  She held out a delicate hand.

  “So pleased to meet you, Dr. Foster. Won’t you come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  I followed her into the foyer, my shoes clomping loudly on the marble, echoing through the stony silence of the house.

  “We’ll talk in the library,” she said. “May I offer you a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, trailing along beside her.

  The library. I’d never been in a house that had a library.

  “I appreciate your seeing me,” I said.

  “Not at all. I was hoping we would get a chance to talk.”

  The library door stood open, and we walked into perhaps the coziest room I’d ever seen in my life. Worn leather couches flanked a fireplace, in which a storybook fire burned brightly. An oriental rug covered most of the hardwood floor, its fringes framing the seating area. Tall French doors were open to the cool, breezy evening, leading out to a stone patio and framing a spectacular view of Lake Michigan.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held what was obviously someone’s treasured collection of rare books. The bindings on many were old but in remarkable shape. I glanced at the shelf nearest where I stood. The entire shelf was full of Bibles.

  “I collect rare Bibles,” she said, following my eyes.

  “They’re beautiful.” I walked over to the shelf.

  She reached for one and handed it to me. “This is an Aitken Bible. The first Bible printed in English in the United States. 1782. Fewer than a dozen remain in existence in the world.”

  Suddenly I felt grimy I had the urge to bolt for the powder room to wash my hands before I touched it. But I took the book gingerly and opened it, studying the irregular print on the frontispiece.

  The scholar in me was moved by this woman’s love of books, and of Bibles, of all things. She was a woman I would have wanted to know under different circumstances.

  I handed the book back to her. “It’s beautiful. How do you go about finding them?”

  “Rare book dealers. Auctions.”

  “How long have you been collecting?”

  “Twenty years or so.”

  Around the time Erik was born. Around the time Joe had started Eagle Wing Air. Around the time she came into money.

  She gestured toward the couches and seated herself near the fire, indicating that I should sit across from her. The marble coffee table between us seemed like a football field.

  “I’m not sure how to begin,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  She nodded at me. I could tell she still had trouble talking about it. The sparkle of a tear edged into the corner of her eye.

  “Why do you think …” she began. “I mean, in your opinion as a professional. Why …? He was such a wonderful young man. Always so happy.”

  “Many students have a great deal of trouble adjusting to college life,” I said. “Was he? Happy before he left home, I mean?”

  “Always. Our family has always been very happy.”

  “I had understood—” how was I going to put this?—“that there was some ongoing tension in the family.”

  She met my eyes squarely. “That’s a lie. If Erik told you that, he was lying.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend—”

  “I don’t know where you would have gotten such an idea,” she said. “We have always been so fortunate. My husband is a wonderful, kind man.”

  I hadn’t mentioned Joe. Yet she had jumped in to defend him anyway.

  “My understanding is that Joe has a temper. That sometimes—”

  “That’s a lie,” she said again. “My husband is a wonderful, kind man. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Interesting choice of insects.

  “Do you want to know what I really think, Mrs. Zocci?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you a woman of faith?”

  “I always have been.” She gazed into the fire, talking more to herself than to me. “Faith. Evidence of things not seen?” She shook her head. “The evidence of things seen is … more compelling at times.”

  The smell of burning pine crackled into the still air, a tangible comfort in the face of the heavy sadness and tension in the room.

  “I believe Erik was caught in some sort of a spiritual battle. Something that was larger and more powerful than he was,” I said.

  “And how did you determine that, Dr. Foster?”

  “I saw him as a patient only a few times. Over a year ago. But my notes indicate that he was having nightmares. Spiritual nightmares, if you will. Involving some sort of evil presence. I know it sounds strange—”

  “The white man.”

  “He told you about him.”

  She nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “We were talking about how fearful he had become. He had always been such a confident boy. He had this natural … exuberance.”

  “Did he say what the fear was about?”

  “About himself, actually. He said that this man, this white man, haunted him. He had begun to believe him. That he was,” she struggled to keep her composure, “worthless, I believe he said. My precious son. Worthless.”

  Her voice broke at last and the tears came.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment, Dr. Foster?”

  “Sure.”

  She left the room. I sat there alone for a few minutes—longer than I’d expected her to be gone. Then got up and perused the bookshelves again, my old habit of sizing people up via their bookshelves proving too tempting.

  I wandered the room, cocking my ear for her returning footsteps.

  An enormous wall of shelving held Bibles and other rare books. Theology books were arranged in careful order. She liked some of the same theologians I did: C. S. Lewis, Henry Nouwen, though her collection was sprinkled with tomes by the early church fathers—Augustine, Justin—and numerous Catholic scholars.

  Mariann’s charity work was cataloged on this wall as well. I counted a dozen or so framed photographs of Mariann standing among little gaggles of socialites, holding cartoonish, oversize che
cks or cutting red ribbons with enormous scissors. She’d worked with a number of different charities, it seemed, though the one cited most often was something called Angel Wing Air. Its similarity to Eagle Wing Air made me wonder if this was a Zocci-founded nonprofit. I made a mental note to check into it.

  Another entire wall was clearly Joseph Zocci’s territory. Books on business. Biographies of military leaders. Sprinkled among the shelves were various military citations awarded to Lieutenant Zocci during the Vietnam War. A Navy Cross. Two Purple Hearts.

  There were framed newspaper articles regarding his service, mostly from the Chicago Tribune. I squinted to scan the yellowed pages. Zocci had been shot down twice. Once in 1969. And later, in 1971, at which point he’d been taken prisoner. He’d spent two years in a Vietnamese prison camp.

  No wonder the man was so angry.

  Mariann Zocci’s voice startled me.

  “Joe was a war hero,” she said proudly. “He could have requested stateside the first time he was shot down.”

  “Was he wounded?”

  “Not badly. He ejected. His nose was broken and he dislocated his shoulder, I believe. He almost refused his Purple Heart. He didn’t feel his wounds merited it.”

  “How long was he in Vietnam?” I asked.

  “Two full tours, plus two years in captivity. Six years in all before he was released.”

  “That must have been hard for both of you. Did he ever get leave?”

  “After he was shot down the first time. In ’69. He spent a month at home. We’d only been married two years at that point. Still newlyweds really. Most of the time he’d been away.”

  That leave must have been when Joseph Jr. was conceived.

  My eyes moved to the framed family photographs on the table next to me. I leaned down, spotting Andy and Erik right away. All the pictures portrayed what seemed to be a picture-perfect happy family. If what Liz had said was true, the Zoccis were masters at hiding their dysfunction.

  I spotted a picture of a very young, beaming Mariann Zocci holding a toddler. “Is that Joseph Jr.?” I asked.

  She looked at me, startled. “Why yes. It is.”

  “It must be hard, having lost two children. Two children in the same way.”

  “I can’t talk about that.” She straightened and walked away from the table. “Some things, Dr. Foster, are just too painful …”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s so unusual. Do you think that’s why Erik chose—”

  “Erik never knew how his brother died,” she said stiffly. “We don’t talk about it. It was a terrible accident. A terrible time for me. He was my firstborn.”

  “What do you make of the fact that Erik jumped off the same balcony? Surely you must realize—”

  “Dr. Foster, it’s late. I’m afraid I’m going to have to escort you to your car. Thank you so much for visiting with me.”

  And that was it. Conversation over. She didn’t say another word until we’d arrived at the front door.

  “Thank you so much for stopping by, Dr. Foster.”

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Zocci. May I contact you again?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. My husband—”

  “Is suing me,” I said.

  “I think it’s best he doesn’t know we’ve spoken.”

  “I’ll leave my number anyway. In case you think of anything you’d like to discuss with me.” I wrote my cell number on the back of my business card. “I’m staying at the Best Mid-Western downtown. In the city. I’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  She held out her tiny little hand and took my card. “Good night, Dr. Foster.”

  “Good night.”

  I got in my car and circled around the driveway, watching her swing the enormous door shut, closing herself into that cavernous cathedral of a house.

  As I wound down the dark, half-mile ribbon snaking through the trees, I saw a pair of headlights stop on the road, the gate swinging open to let the car through.

  The car eased through the gate and made its way straight toward me. I couldn’t see anything but the headlights. The road was too dark to make out the outline of the car. I slowed down and briefly considered scooting off the side of the road into the trees and turning off my headlights. As though I could make myself invisible. It was a ludicrous thought.

  The road was too narrow to turn around, and my headlights had surely been as visible to the occupant of that car as the other’s had been to me. There was no place to go but forward.

  As the car neared mine, I felt my heart miss a beat. It was the long black Mercedes from the Vendome. The car that Joe Zocci had driven off in.

  The windows were tinted black, obscuring the interior of the car. But I knew that whoever was in that car would have a big, fat headlighted view of me. Me in my purple Neon. In all my glory.

  The car pulled beside me, slowed, and then continued past me without stopping. I downshifted and floored it.

  Once on the road, the gate swinging slowly shut behind me, I barreled down Lakeside toward the lights of Highland Park, somehow finding comfort in the idea of witnesses. Surely Joseph Zocci wouldn’t come after me if I was surrounded by his neighbors.

  As I neared the lights of town, a police cruiser passed me slowly. I hoped that Zocci hadn’t already gotten to the local police. I felt conspicuous. I envisioned the car flipping on red and blue lights, blocking my exit, an officer hopping out, gun drawn.

  None of that happened. The cruiser passed me without pause.

  I took the opportunity to beat it out of Highland Park, I wanted to get out of Chicago, in fact. Whatever I’d hoped to accomplish, I was convinced I’d failed thoroughly. And I was just as thoroughly out of ideas. I’d danced in the face of danger long enough.

  I stopped to fill up the car with gas, got myself a cup of decaf tea, and then headed back into the city, back to my crummy, haunted hotel room. I’d try to steal myself some sleep, ferreting out some rest for my addled, stressed-out mind.

  And then I intended to get on the plane and get myself back to Texas where I belonged.

  25

  MY ROOM AT THE BEST MID-WESTERN was just as I’d left it, untouched by the healing hands of housekeeping. Sheets were still rumpled. Pillows awry. The shower curtain had finally been removed but not yet replaced. Someone had left a pile of folded towels, a set of hotel toiletries, and a fresh roll of toilet paper just inside my door.

  My heart sank. This day had shed the last of its appeal. My give-a-hooter was officially broken. All I wanted was out.

  I carried in my pile of fresh towels and slung them onto the foot of the unmade bed, then gathered the used towels as I walked around the room and hurled them in a pile by the front door.

  I picked up the phone and called American Airlines. Tomorrow’s flights were full, but I could fly standby in the morning for a fifty dollar fee. I gave the rep my credit card number and prayed that a seat would open.

  The hotel’s bath gel, a noxious vanilla-scented concoction, sounded better to me than anything I’d experienced all day, my standards were so low. So I filled the tub, emptied the tiny bottle into the warm running water, and sank myself into the suds.

  My temples throbbed. My body ached. My mind reeled. I practiced deep breathing and prayed to all three members of the Trinity, covering my bases by hitting the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in quick succession. I needed relief. Surely the Lord could see that. Maybe I could get it by knocking hard on all three doors.

  My headache was just about gone when I was jolted out of my near-coma by a thunderous knock on the door.

  Cursing does not come naturally to me. I’m not good at it, and the words take on a strange, tinny timbre as they pass my lips. But on this occasion, I made a good faith effort. I cussed a streak as I wrapped a tiny, thin hotel towel around my slippery body and stomped to the door. I hooked the inside safety latch, opened the door, and peered through the crack.

  I expected hotel staff. Someone bearing a re
placement shower curtain. Someone who would see the distress on my face and feel appropriately guilty for failing to properly service my room.

  What I got instead was the Chicago Police Department.

  “Officer Pruitt. CPD,” the man said. “Looking for a Mr. Dylan Foster.”

  “Mister?”

  “Dylan Foster.”

  “Dylan Foster is a woman. Ms. Dylan Foster. Or Doctor. That works too. Either one.”

  “Okay, Missus. Have you seen her?”

  “How much more do you want to see? I’m standing here in a towel.”

  Officer Pruitt clearly wasn’t burning up the Bell curve on his IQ test. “You’re Dylan Foster?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I’m Dylan Foster.”

  “You are under arrest.”

  More cussing. Mentally this time. I coached myself to keep my composure. Hysterics would only make the situation worse.

  “On what charge?” I asked.

  “Trespassing.”

  Rats.

  “Breaking and entering.”

  Cuss, cuss, cuss.

  “Assault and battery.”

  Whoa. I tried to remain calm.

  “Who did I allegedly,” I dragged the word out, “assault and batter?”

  “Mariann Zocci.” Officer Pruitt pulled his cuffs off his belt, suddenly all business. “You’ll have to come with me.”

  “Mariann Zocci was assaulted?”

  “Mrs. Foster, I need you to cooperate. Would you like me to call for a female officer?”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Mrs. Foster, how much time do you need to prepare for your departure?”

  I stammered. “What do I …? Do I leave my stuff? Should I pack?”

  “I’ll need you to dress for departure, Mrs. Foster. Would you like me to call for a female officer?”

  “No. I just need a few minutes.” I started to close the door.

  Officer Pruitt shoved his foot into the doorway “I’m afraid I can’t leave you unattended, Mrs. Foster.”

  “You mean you need to watch me dress?”

  “Afraid so, ma’am.”

  “I’d like you to call for a female officer.”