Free After the Evil – A Jake Roberts Novel (Book 1) by Cary Allen Stone

nothing.”
    “What a surprise.”
    The sarcasm in Mika’s voice betrays her normally
cool exterior.
    “You want to run through it?”
    Harmon and I join in an affirmative nod. Mika runs
through it all hoping that some minute detail has been
overlooked.
    “Abrams, Thaddeus, psychiatrist, age forty-six,
Caucasian male, married to Anna. Case number: CR 897-4453. Address
is here, six foot even, one hundred ninety pounds, brown hair,
green eyes and small scar on right elbow. Victim found by spouse
who has been eliminated as a suspect. Head facing northwest, face
up, feet to the south and southwest, hands and feet secured as
previous victims.”
    Harmon rolls his dark eyes and scrunches his face
when she says the part about the castration. I can feel a phantom
wound between my legs as well.
    The first forty-eight hours are critical to a
homicide investigation. I’m standing here at the forty-ninth.
    * * *
    It’s been three days since Abrams’s murder. As an
insider, and a man considered one of their own, Abrams is talked
about in the precinct with affection and honor. There are
outpourings of sympathy for Anna. How could anyone know his soul
was thrashing and burning in the flames of hell at this very
moment?
    My two partners drop me off at my apartment just
after our visit to the mansion. It’s late and I’m exhausted. I’m
having trouble keeping my eyes open. My troublesome nightmares,
return to duty, and seeing Mika again, all in one day has drained
me. I can’t decide what beat me up worse. The pain in my arm is
still there, but not as bad. My little helpers are easily
accessible and a cold beer helps. Sometimes, being alone can be too
quiet. As I recline on my couch, I think about getting my
television repaired, but most of the shows suck anyway. I never
shop from home, never cared about the Middle East, or the
fabricated lives of movie stars, and I definitely don’t care about
over-paid ballplayers. There are always the depressing news
channels, but I deal with real life. I get all the entertainment I
need on the streets.
    On the end table, beneath my Glock, is a vacation
brochure that reads:
    “ A small, rural town in Central Florida,
Cassadaga attracts thousands of visitors each year for one unique
reason. It’s a camp and winter retreat for spiritualists... Current
activities in the camp include psychic applications of: palmistry,
Tarot reading, astrology, and numerology, past life regression,
dream analysis, spiritual counseling and soul healing.”
    Maybe a psychic can tell me who killed Abrams. I
toss the brochure into the stack of old newspapers headed for the
Waste Management dumpster. I’m anticipating, which nightmare will
haunt and punish me, when I lay my head on my pillow. I hate waking
up in a cold sweat in a dark room. I force my eyes to stay open but
they fight me and win. In the middle of the night, a nightmare,
once again, takes center stage.
    The auburn-haired girl with the swastika carved in
her forehead stares at me as she does every night. She asks me the
same question, “Who gave you the right to kill me?”
    I never have an answer for her.

4

    The steamy hot water felt good. It caressed her
naked body along its path to the drain. She saw it like a baptism
that was washing her sins away. With her eyes closed, she thought
about how rugged and handsome he was. She was taken by his boyish
behavior, his sentimental eyes above the character creases in his
face, and his deep, masculine voice. Jake was a classic
lover-protector. With her head beneath the soothing waterfall in
the shower, she thought about the last time they made love.
    His two fingers lay across my lips, and stopped me
in mid-sentence. I felt comfort and safety, pleasure in his arms.
His eyes communicated his desires. I kissed his neck, his strong
shoulders, and his chest. He straddled me. His intimate thrusts
became more aggressive and intense, until we clenched and remained
locked, pleading for the moment to last into