After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) (4 page)

Abrams made the elusive connection between the
father and the missing ex-husband, the daughter’s suicide, the
beatings, and the sexual abuse. He heard similar references from
other clients he had treated over the years. He scribbled on his
notepad and tore off the page then reached forward, holding the
page between the two of them. Lori took it and read what he had
written. It was an address.

“Unfortunately Lori, our time is up and as you know
I have a few more patients waiting outside. I think we have made
some real progress here today, in fact, so much so I need for you
to continue this session later this evening at my home.”

He pointed at the page.

“That’s the address.”

“I don’t understand, Dr. Abrams.”

He moved closer to her and exuded compassion.

“I believe we’ve made a major breakthrough today,
and it is imperative that we discuss this further, before you leave
on another flight.”

Lori considered the option Abrams presented, but
wasn’t quite sure how that meshed with her revelations. As patients
do, she trusted her medical practitioner. Taking the address he
gave her, she stored it in her purse, and nodded. He desperately
tried to appear reserved and controlled, while she stood and walked
out of the office.

She was perfect.

After the shooting, and subsequent investigation by
Internal Affairs, I was exhausted. I crashed into one of those
comatose-like sleeps. Since then, I just lay in bed for hours
staring at the ceiling. Abrams said the depression is a normal
reaction to what happened, and it would eventually subside. My
apartment isn’t far from the precinct. The neighborhood is
nondescript, middle-class, what I could afford on my salary. There
aren’t any gated communities here. The nearest one would be lock-up
inside the precinct.

The place is small, crowded with worn furniture, and
has the comfortable ambiance of a bachelor pad. Being the dedicated
cop that I am, I never used to spend much time here. Now, I hide
inside the cave. On the porch, newspapers are piled up from the
newspaper carrier who could care less. The mailman curses every
time he has to jam more mail into my overflowing mailbox. The
priest from Saint Dominic’s stops by, but I don’t feel holy. Over
the years, I have seen stabbings, domestic violence, abuse cases,
gunshot wounds—you name it. None of that damaged my head as bad as
shooting that girl. The doctor prescribed Hydrocodone for the hole
in my arm. I have taken much more than needed to stop the pain.

In days past, I used to take better care of myself
considering the line of work I’m in. I ate right, worked out in the
gym, got plenty of sunshine, and lived a relatively healthy
lifestyle. My fellow law enforcement officers joked about it all
the time, but found my efforts to be admirable. Now that’s all gone
and it’s just my pills and me. Abrams isn’t much help.
Psychiatrists are a waste of time anyway. There was a time when I
thought...hoped...
God
would jump in, and send an angel to
save me. I’m sure He, or She, figured out I was going straight to
hell anyway so why waste a perfectly good angel. I’m just going to
have to deal with the bad juju single-handedly.

“JAKE, HEY JAKE! OPEN THE DOOR!”

The banging stops when I open the door. Harmon
Blackwell, homicide detective and partner, bends down and picks up
the morning’s paper out of all the others, which he nonchalantly
kicks off to the side of the porch. He storms in throwing the
newspaper at me. It falls to the floor as I turn toward the
bedroom. My arm hurts.

Where did I put that prescription bottle with the
child-resistant cover?

Finding it, I shake out another pill. A sip of Jack
Daniels helps the little bomber go down easier.

“If you’re here for some talk-therapy––”

“No, I can see you’re too screwed up for that.”

“And stop taking those damn pills, man, what’s the
matter with you?”

He doesn’t approve of my helpers. Harmon can kick my
butt, without breaking a sweat. He likes it. You should see him on
the street. “What did you say? What? Come here, I’m talking to
you!” That’s Harmon. He lightened up a little when he got his
detective shield. Homicide hasn’t been the same since. Harmon grabs
my arm, the one attached to the bottle of pills.

“Jesus, Harmon.”

I flinch because he squeezes hard. Whenever Harmon
is near, I take the name of his Savior in vain. His moms taught
Fred to never disrespect Jesus, or the church. He knows from
several years on the street together, I have serious theological
issues. He religiously corrects me about it.

“The old man wants you back at work, let’s go.”

He presses harder on my sore arm and I forcefully
push him away.

“I’m on medical leave. That means you, and he, have
to
leave
me alone.”

My butt falls into my Lazy Boy. With my eyes closed,
I kick back and slip into a dark hole. For some strange reason,
probably because I had blasphemed, I think about the nuns back in
the orphanage who raised me from the crib. They’re the reason why
I’m so dedicated. I remember they taught me I could accomplish
anything, if I just tried.

“Get your sorry, white butt up and let’s go.”

He’s becoming more threatening than before, but he’s
going to have to improve in the tact category, before he ever has a
chance at moving up the crime fighter career ladder. While he
speaks, I think about the girl, until she is replaced by whether or
not, I think I could handle my job professionally ever again. He
takes another look at me in the dim light.

“Roberts, are you listening to me? Man, you look
like hell.”

“Thank you for your support.”

I try to be as gracious as possible about the intent
of his criticism. He shakes his head to emphasize his very strong
feelings about it.

“Those pills are going to screw you up good.”

“Don’t you mean screw me up
bad
?”

“And it’s
red
butt. How many times must I
tell you? How long have we been partners?”

“Red, white, I really don’t care, Jake, Fairchild
told me to bring you back pronto Tonto, so let’s go.”

“Screw him.”

“Screw him?”

Harmon’s reaction, the mocking laugh, and “say
what?” face, is classic.

“Yeah, screw him. It’s just another example of the
white man, and the black man, keeping the red man down.”

I have no idea where that came from.

“Hey Geronimo, you need to give it a rest. Why don’t
you dig deep down into your inner man, and get back to
respectable?”

“I’m feeling like I’m already six feet down, just
waiting for someone to cover me with dirt, and here you are with a
shovelful.”

I lean back, close my eyes again and think.

She was just a kid.

The next thing I know, I shout it.

“SHE WAS JUST A KID!”

“That kid put a hole in your arm. A few more inches
and she would have put you
in a hole
.”

“She would have done me a favor.”

I fight back. I need sympathy, and I have no one
else to get it from. I’m counting on Harmon to pull me up. The
others talk about how lucky I was, but I’m not so sure. Harmon
softens his tone for a moment, and asks a curious question.

“Did you cry?”

Tough guy Harmon never asked me that before. He
obviously wants to know how it feels in case it ever happens to
him. I can’t answer. We just look at each other. Finally, to break
the awkward silence, I comment that scientists believe the universe
is permeated with dark matter. It’s a thing Harmon and I do when
things get confused. We read science articles constantly. It helps
to keep us sane.

“Are you talking from my neighborhood?” he says.

“The string theory says that tension strands fill
the entire universe and vibrate. The resonating creates life. It
could be part of the dark matter.”

“The entropy theory says there is a degree of
disorder in all systems.”

I shrug.

“Second Law of Thermodynamics, everything tends
toward a greater disorder.”

“Yeah, that’s where we come in as
professional
lawmen. Hey man, we got to go, or the old man’s
going to have my butt,” Harmon says.

He signals he is done playing, but I still need to
play.

“Aristotle, flat universe with the earth at the
center; Copernicus, 1514, the sun is at the center of the very same
universe; Christensen, 1676, light travels at a constant speed;
Hubble, 1929, the galaxy is moving away; Hawking, the universe is
here for us.”

“Fairchild, today, get Roberts back to work,” Harmon
said.

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“She was just a kid, man.”

“Are you coming, Crazy Horse?”

He miss quotes the words of the great warrior.

“It is a good day to kick your ass. It is a good day
to see Fairchild before
he
comes looking for you.”

“I’m not ready.”

I love Harmon Blackwell. He is there for me with no
limits, or barriers. As he stands, he blocks whatever sunlight is
shining through the shaded front windows. He looks interesting
backlit. He leaves through the front door knowing it’s better to
leave me alone for now. He’s gone before I can make another
smartass remark. After the door closes, I see my Glock lying beside
me on the table. How easy it would be to end the pain.

* * *

Her instincts told her to stay alert. She had an
uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as she rang the bell, and
waited for someone to answer the door. Behind her, an incredibly
intense, one-of-a-kind sunset faded from the horizon. A smiling and
anxious, Thaddeus Abrams briskly opened one of the carved-glass,
double doors. His greeting was warmhearted. She returned a shy
hello. He invited her in. As she stepped inside, the smell of
freshly cut flowers, and burning scented candles filled the
foyer.

Admiring the incredible craftsmanship that went into
the construction of his home, Lori thought it was obvious a woman
had designed, and decorated, the detailed interior of the
residence. A man, however, had strongly influenced the exterior of
the mansion, with its manicured lawn, stone and wrought iron work,
and the steeply pitched roof. A visitor was given the overpowering
impression of success and power.

Lori felt uncomfortable and suspicious. Men, she had
learned, could not be trusted. She hoped it wasn’t the case with
Dr. Abrams, because he was the best at what he did, and she
desperately needed his help. It just seemed odd that he needed to
address her issues under less than clinical conditions. When he
took her hands and held them for too long, the red flags went up in
her mind.

“Maybe, this isn’t the right time.”

Lori pulled her hands free.

Abrams spoke in his professional tone.

“No, Lori, this is the right time. There are no
distractions, or time constraints, like at the office. I often see
patients here. I just need to find my notes.”

Leading her into the den, he pointed to a leather
sofa.

“Please.”

She remained standing.

“Where is Mrs. Abrams?”

The familiar sensual, sultry tone of Lori’s voice
was missing.

“Mrs. Abrams...is out.”

He paged through his found notes.

“She does a great deal of charity work for the
American Cancer Society, as Vice-Chairperson, very devoted.”

“I’m not sure I want to do this, not here.”

Lori said it with a nervous undertone. Hearing she
wanted to bail out, Abrams knew he had to make it clear why she had
to stay. His next statement was more direct and to the point. He
looked into her eyes.

“I know Lori. I’ve been in the psychiatry business a
very long time, and have heard more than my share of the dark sides
of people to know there’s a dark side to you.”

Startled by the remark, her eyebrows crushed in
tight, and she felt a tremor in her hands.

How could he know? What does he want?

Maybe, she thought, he didn’t really know jack, and
just wanted to frighten her into bed. Swirling the expensive scotch
in his glass, he waited. Her denial didn’t come. When she turned
away, he spoke, while he searched for a book on the shelf.

“Your choice of words, your expressions, history—it
all suggests murderer to someone who watches, and listens to them
for a living. I’m supposed to cure them, but you know, and I know,
there is no cure, right Lori? No, once that line has been crossed,
and in spite of some well-intentioned statements of regret and
remorse, a murderer always looks forward to killing again. It’s the
control, domination, and the godlike decision-making that make it
so enticing, so addicting. Wouldn’t you agree, Lori?”

She didn’t reply.

“And who is to say what’s right and wrong? Who is to
judge? Murder is often seen as a means of accomplishing the goals
of a shared societal belief system, whether it’s war, abortion, or
euthanasia. I think you get my point.”

After paging through the book he had retrieved from
the bookshelf, he tossed it onto his rosewood desk. His glass was
near empty, so he headed back to the bar. Lori knew she had to say
something. She tried to do so as firmly and confidently as she
could.

“So Dr. Abrams, what do you want?”

“A cold, calculated admission by default.”

Then he hammered at her.

“Let’s see, the direct approach, okay how’s this?
You were sexually abused as a child. You didn’t know what to do. It
was a family member you trusted and believed in. It was hard to
justify that your own father could hurt you in such a way.”

He saw fire in her eyes.

Now that hit home.

He fired another round.

“Why did you let it continue? Why didn’t you tell
someone? Why didn’t you tell your mother?”

I knew what was happening to Emily.