After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (2 page)

“You know?” he said.

She bowed her head.

“I want to confess my sins, Father. Will you hear my
confession? I want you to absolve my sins, and forgive me,” Lori
said.

“What is wrong with you?”

His head fell back onto the pillow. He tried to
compose himself, but he jerked back up again with anger and
revulsion.

“Are you
insane
?”

Her jagged reaction, to his interrogatory outburst,
caused a quick reevaluation of his options. His head fell back
again as his mind raced. There wasn’t any way out of the tight spot
he was in. He had to be repentant, and negotiate.

“Lori, what do you want from me? You want the truth?
Okay, it’s true––I’m a priest. I don’t have any excuse for my
actions, except to say, I’m just a frail human like all men, and I
sin, too.”

He studied her face to see if he was getting
through. She bit at her lower lip, while contemplating his answer
then she smiled, and slid her index finger from his forehead down
to his lips, where they rested for a moment.

I really enjoyed kissing you.

Her finger continued down, and stopped at his
genitals. She massaged him softly. He glanced down at what she was
doing, and squirmed.

Its just some weird sexual game she plays.

He tried an end run.

“Did you like it? We could do it again, make love
again. Just untie me.”

Lori smiled deprecatingly.

“Now Father, we never did make love. And as far as
untying you, you know I can’t do that.”

“Untie me, goddammit,” Anthony said.

“Oh my, thou shall not take the name of the Lord thy
God in vain. You’re just like that little pope of yours, and the
archbishops, and bishops––the pious hierarchy, so holy when you
want to be, and so arrogant with authority. Priests think they have
all the answers and can tell the rest of us how to live.”

Anthony turned away, ashamed. He shifted, trying his
best to distance himself from her.

This can’t be happening.

“This is some kind of a joke, right?”

He couldn’t conceal his fear.

“Father, I can assure you this is no joke.”

Lori looked off into the distance.

“Do you believe in life after death?”

Her eyebrows rose. Lori focused on him waiting for
his answer.

You are a handsome man.

“Of course, I do.”

Her gaze left his as she looked down, and watched
her fingertips dance around his manhood. She posed another
theological question.

“If heaven is such a
heavenly
place, why does
everyone want to take an
eternity
to get there?”

He had to think about that one. He often thought
that heaven must be a small place out of necessity, and hell
enormous. After all, there were far more of the damned, than there
were saved in the world.

“Is evil the same in every religion Father, or is
evil different from one religion to the next?”

She stared at him.

“Father Anthony, you aren’t a very good person.”

His answer was sarcastic.

“Even Jesus wasn’t loved by everyone.”

“You are not Jesus, Father Anthony.”

Bowing her head, she made a request.

“I want you to hear my confession.”

Reaching over to the nightstand, she grasped the
roll of duct tape. Tearing off a small piece, she ceremoniously
placed it over his mouth, while his head thrashed violently from
side to side. As hard as he possibly could, he struggled to free
himself.

Lori started confessing.

“Father, like yourself, I have taken the Lord thy
God’s name in vain. I have not honored my mother or my father. And
I am about to break the commandment—Thou shall not kill.”

She looked deeply into his wide, terrified eyes.

“Bless me Father, for I must sin again.”

Anthony perspired profusely. His pounding chest
heaved. Tears fell down the sacrificial lamb’s face. With his eyes
closed tight, he hastily prayed for God’s forgiveness of his sins.
When he opened them again, he saw the raised, shimmering blade of
the knife. He tensed and shook violently. He screamed from behind
the tape sealing his lips. The good father felt the first, but
because of the shock infiltrating his body, not the rest of the
repeated punctures to his torso. If Anthony’s God were truly
merciful, He, or She, would gift Anthony, on his deathbed with the
painless “golden hour.” Another heartbeat passed.

His eyes rolled back and disappeared. Had a heart
monitor been attached to him it would have revealed a complete
cessation of all cardiac function, with flat brain wave tracing. It
would have confirmed that Father Anthony Moralli had left for the
next life. Then with the artistry of a gourmet chef, she dragged
the blade down his chest, and severed his genitals. A massive river
of blood spilled from the wound between his legs. She held the
organ up, while more blood drained down from her hand to her bent
elbow. It made a muted thud when she dropped it onto him.

To complete the act, Lori stabbed him one last time,
directly into his heart, and withdrew her hand. The knife stood
erect, like a tombstone protruding from his unmoving chest. Father
Anthony mouthed his last words behind the duct tape during the
brief seconds he had left, but she never heard them. She had no
idea he had forgiven her. She walked to the foot of the bed where
she sat down on a chair facing him. While staring at the corpse,
she became lost in an out-of-body experience that took her mind
along for the ride. Her fingers roamed until she found the special
place between her legs. The face of her dead husband appeared over
Anthony’s, and spoke to her.

That’s right baby. Daddy loves you.

“Did I do it right, daddy? Like you taught me,
daddy?”

You’re daddy’s little girl.

She recited while matching the rhythm of her
hand.

“Daddy loves me, daddy loves me, daddy...loves...me…
Why daddy, daddy it hurts. Please stop, daddy, no more, daddy.
Mommy, make him stop!”

Like every time before, she could not reach a
climax, and the rapid motion of her hand ceased. Lori awoke from
the dream and became mechanical. From the bathroom, she retrieved a
white washcloth. Returning to the bed, she soaked a corner of the
cloth into the puddle of blood between Anthony’s thighs. She
climbed over him to the headboard, and wrote crimson letters on the
wall––
Anthony
.

She retrieved her things, including the CD from the
stereo. She was careful to leave the room clean, with no way to
connect her to the murder. Nobody knew she was with him. She took
one more look before leaving quietly. It was just before midnight
when Lori returned to her layover hotel. She showered then climbed
into bed and fell asleep. Her alarm clock woke her, and within an
hour, she met with her crew in the hotel lobby. Like an apparition,
she would completely disappear without a trace. The early flight
departure gave her the distance that would prevent her capture.
Like all of the other murders she had committed, this one would
confound and mystify investigators.

As her flight departed into the early-morning haze,
she contemplated what she needed to do when she got back home. She
would stop by the food store for groceries. Renting a movie was an
option. She had to water the plants, and there were bills to pay.
She also thought about the man who had beaten her and who sexually
abused their young daughter on the pretext of love.

* * *

The odor drew the first witness to the gruesome
crime scene. She reported the repugnant smell to the front desk.
When the manager arrived, he knocked heavily on the cottage door.
Not receiving a response, he announced “Manager” and went inside.
After a few short steps, he saw all he needed to see, and radioed
the front office to call the police. The girl with the halter-top,
and tight denim shorts, looking on from the doorway, let out a
terrifying, chilling scream. Her boyfriend ran to join her. Both
stood frozen and gawked at the twisted carcass with the severely
contorted expression.

While the three of them waited for the police, they
debated going back inside to see if the victim was still alive.
Finally, the brave manager told the two lovers to stand back while
he checked for a pulse. Forcing himself to go back in, he made his
way to the bed. Just as he was about to touch the discolored wrist,
the feel of a hand on his arm nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.
A Kevlar-vested female officer, behaving in typical maximum-threat
fashion, quickly herded him and the other two witnesses away to
safety. With her laser-sight illuminated, she tightened her grip on
her weapon, and held it in front of her as she searched the
premises.

Blues and reds flashed in rapid succession against
the drizzle and overcast. The entire cottage was illuminated in
white light as more emergency personnel arrived. The first
responders were soaked in adrenaline as they performed their
duties. The discovery of the dead man was contagious. News trucks
with painted station logos arrived, and extended their antennas
high into the night sky for satellite feeds. Reporters descended on
the scene like vultures with their outstretched, hideous wings.
They went to work on the carcass using blood to sell valuable
advertising space. The first reporter on the scene, desperately
seeking network recognition, spewed directly into the camera lens
the earliest details as investigators relayed them.

...The victim, a Caucasian male, was stabbed
repeatedly, and castrated. Although unconfirmed, this reporter has
been told by sources close to the investigation, that the victim is
a Catholic priest. Just moments ago, Bishop Archibald, from the
Mother of Soul’s parish here in Gulfport, has administered last
rites...

It was riveting television. “Reality” death always
held a captive audience. The news stations played the gruesome
scene repeatedly, albeit with parental warnings. Jurisdiction of
the crime scene, a treasured pearl of law enforcement, passed from
the Gulfport locals to Special Agent Mika Scott, when she and her
Evidence Response Team arrived from Quantico a few hours later.

* * *

After waiting for over an hour, I recline on the
couch, but shift into several uncomfortable positions. I can’t sit
still. I hate having to surrender my thoughts and my emotions to
him. God forbid I say something that causes him to take me off the
streets. I would leave, except the department's policy requires all
cops involved in a shooting, have to see the shrink.

“I watched as the Molotov cocktail flew in an arc
and crashed through the stained glass window. Jesus the Shepherd
was at the center of the window only moments before.”

I feel like I’m suffocating, cornered. The place and
surroundings couldn’t help, but make you feel flawed as a human
being.

“The Molotov cocktail rolled across the sacristy
floor spitting yellow and orange flames. Heavy, coal-colored,
swirling smoke billowed out. Nothing could be done, while the blaze
burned the house of God to the ground. Then the dark angel
responsible, as if receiving an order directly from Satan, began
the last barrage. The weapon discharged, and my windshield
exploded. Shards of glass and debris flew all around me. I dropped
to the pavement.”

After a long swallow from the glass of water on the
end table, the rest of my nightmare slips out.

Easy Jake, don’t talk about anger in front of the
man.

“One of the ‘cop killer’ round struck Sergeant
Peterson a few yards away from me. I couldn’t get to him. I was
pinned down then I took a hit. I didn’t feel it at first, the burn.
I returned fire. My first round shattered the larynx, and the
perp’s arms extended as if begging to be crucified. My second round
tore open the chest. The black, fatigue-clad body danced beneath
the yellowish glow of the fluorescent streetlights. It stood like a
statue, before finally collapsing to the pavement. My
bullet-riddled radiator hissed. Stepping through the blood, I
cautiously approached and kicked away the weapon. I took out my
‘cuffs, but the body appeared lifeless. My still hot Glock dropped
to my side. It was over.”

Trying to alleviate the pains and stress in my body,
I shift again. He sits quietly, hands clasped together, and gives
me time to get it all out.

“The paramedic removed the ski mask, and her auburn
hair limply cascaded down. Her face had a horrified look that said
an angry God was already passing sentence. Her lips quivered, and I
thought she was trying to speak. I dropped down to hear, but I only
felt her last breath touch my face.”

I blink as the corners of my eyes begin to tear.

“Rapid cerebral replays of the shooting and heavy
doses of guilt have dogged me since. She was just a kid.”

Abrams allows my words to hang in the air. His
unnerving silence makes me squirm and twitch. Is he waiting for me
to collapse? He asks a simple question with a calm voice.

“Can you go on, or would you like to stop here?”

That really cranks me off, so I blast back.

“Hey, tell me what I’m supposed to do here, what I’m
supposed to say, tell me how I’m supposed to heal.”

Abrams answers with a calm, compassionate tone.

“Jake, it doesn’t work that way. You had physical
trauma from the gunshot, and the doctor prescribed a pill for the
pain, but what’s in your head cannot be cured with a pill.”

Dr. Thaddeus Abrams, mid-forties, is wearing his
trademark heavy-rimmed, black eyeglasses. He is soft-spoken and
polite. In addition to his own practice, he is included in the
department’s payroll. A shooter like me is supposed to attend
therapy once a week. Those who work through their pain can regain
their life and career. If the scars are too deep sometimes,
recovery is impossible then it will be just a matter of time before
their prolonged misery ends in suicide. I’m not going to be counted
among the lost.