A touch of evil, p.1
A Touch of Evil, page 1
A Touch of Evil
(A Thriller)
Vincent Zandri
Published by Vincent Zandri, 2023.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A TOUCH OF EVIL
First edition. May 2, 2023.
Copyright © 2023 Vincent Zandri.
ISBN: 979-8223286332
Written by Vincent Zandri.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Vincent Zandri
A Touch of Evil ((A Thriller))
A Touch of Evil | Vincent Zandri
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Snapshot
Snapshot
JOHN
LANA
JOHN
CARL
For Lana, | For a wonderful fruitful life on Orchard Grove. | Love Ethan | XOX
Snapshot
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Snapshot
Snapshot
Snapshot
What the hell am I about to do? | What the hell am I about to do? | What the hell am I about to do?
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PART II | FADE OUT:
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“Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant.”
—New York Post
“(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting.”
—Publishers Weekly
“. . . Oh, what a story it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.”
—Booklist “Starred Review”
“Zandri does a fantastic job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror
Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word “tough.”
—Suspense Magazine
“I very highly recommend this book . . . It's a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists . . . Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one best seller after another.”
—Life in Review
“(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”
—The Times-Union (Albany)
"The action never wanes."
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
"Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting."
—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years
"Tough, stylish, heartbreaking."
—Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.
“A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”
—MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure
“A classic slice of raw pulp noir...”
—William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob
“Zandri (is) a veteran wordsmith who executes quality and quantity at superlative levels.”
—Book Reporter
A Touch of Evil
Vincent Zandri
“Down to the closest friend every man is a potential murderer.”
— Henry Miller
In the Beginning...
Summer
North Albany, NY
She slips on thick, white-framed sunglasses, and lies back on the chaise lounge, relaxing smooth long legs and a topless torso against the springy fabric. Snatching a green apple from the table beside her, she takes a bite out of it and stares directly up at the hot sun. She thinks, how funny that houses now stand where once were apple trees for as far as the eye could see. Apples I’d picked and ate until I could eat no more. An apple orchard where I could run and hide and no one would find me.
The trees are all gone now, but the memories aren’t. The memories are still festering like open wounds. Why in God’s name did I have to come back here? Why, of all places, did we have to buy a house on this very spot of land? Maybe we bought the house because I wanted it that way. Because I can’t forget what happened here all those years ago. Because I relive the memories every day and every night of that bright fall afternoon, not as if it happened thirty-six years ago but only thirty-six seconds ago. Maybe moved back here because I had no choice but to come back home to Orchard Grove.
In her mind, she’s a girl again.
Her hair is long, blonde, and smooth as fresh linen. It runs down the length of her back, nearly touching the elastic rainbow-colored belt that holds up her cut-off jeans. It’s early fall, but unseasonably hot. Indian Summer. She shouldn’t be running so hard. But she hasn’t got much of a choice. She’s running through the orchard, her breathing heavy and labored, tears falling down her face and into her mouth.
A man is coming up on her from behind. A big man.
He’s shouting her name. “Lana! Lana! Stop Lana!”
He’s a man of forty. Strong from constant physical labor and bearing the wiry muscles of a farmer who works seven days a week. He’s wearing filthy khakis and an even filthier denim work shirt with a couple of buttons missing. Lana is afraid of the man because of what he will do to her when he finds her deep inside the apple orchard.
“Lana, I’m coming!” he shouts, his voice cutting through her like the sharpest of paring knives. “You can’t hide from me, sweetheart. I’m your papa, Lana. Your father.” Slowing to a walk to catch his breath. “You hear me, sweetie pie? You don’t run from the man who protects you.”
But still, she runs. Runs as if the devil himself were on her heels. But he is not the devil. He is instead the man who calls himself her mother’s husband and because he is married to her mother, he is now her father. He is coming for her inside a fenced-in orchard that covers four hundred square acres. As frightened as she is, she wants him to chase her. That’s the plan. She knows that soon she will not have the strength to carry on. But then, neither will he. She will have to cease running. And when she does, she will be ready for him.
Finally, she stops by a single tree that occupies a short incline.
Winded and covered in a sheen of cold sweat, she need not run any farther. This is the place, after all. The place deep inside the apple orchard where she intends to put an end to the long nightmare.
“I’m coming, Lana!” she hears. “You can’t hide. You know you can’t hide, sweetie. Not from me. Not when I love you so very much.”
Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out the small black can of Mace. Glancing over her shoulder at the apple tree, she spots the meat cleaver she had placed there only last night. She’s ready for him. Ready for the step-monster.
“Chill, Lana,” she whispers aloud while breathing deeply. “Just chill out and get your stuff together. You’ll get your revenge. But first, you gotta relax.”
He’s closer than she thought.
Soon she spots him coming up on her in the narrow, grassy corridor formed between the linear rows of trees. Her heart pounds so forcefully, she feels she might faint right on the spot... right under the fully blossomed apple tree.
But she can’t faint. Because what she’s about to do with this man... this monster... will require every ounce of her strength, agility, and courage.
When he catches up with her, he is breathing hard and perspiring, the sweat having stained the armpits on his shirt. Unbuckling his belt with one hand and running his opposite hand up and down his scruffy face, he forms a smile that is as far from happy as Satan is from sweet baby Jesus.
“I like it when you run away from me,” he whispers in his gravelly, two-pack-a-day smoker’s voice.
He’s standing so close to her now, she smells the sweat on him. The body odor. She breathes in his tar and nicotine-tainted breath.
“Then maybe you’ll like this too,” she says, raising up the Mace can, and aiming the nozzle directly at his face.
He grabs hold of her shoulders just as she presses down on the nozzle.
The clear spray shoots into his blue eyes.
Releasing her, he brings both fisted hands to his face and fiercely rubs his eyes as if they were on fire.
“You little bitch,” he screams. “I’ll get you for this.”
She watches him squirming, crying, the snot pouring out of his nostrils, running over his lips onto his prickly chin, and she thinks, Right. I’m the bitch... I’m the little bitch... Well, asshole, just look at you now.
Set vertically at the base of the apple tree, its handle positioned upward at the blue sky is the cleaver or, what’s more commonly known in the trade as a meat-bone cutter. A thick blade that comes in handy for cutting up apples on the thick wood slabs inside the cider house. The cleaver will kill the beast that has been ravaging her for months now.
She takes hold of the two-pound axe-like blade and feels its awesome solid weight in her hand. Feels its power. Cocking it back, she takes aim and swings.
But she’s not fast enough.
Her step-monster grabs hold of her forearm only a split second before the sharp steel touches the skin on his sweat and filth-covered neck. He squeezes her forearm like he’s trying to crush bone while digging his fingernails into her skin. Her hand opens and the cleaver drops to the ground, bouncing off an exposed tree root.
White-hot pain shoots throughout her body. She drops to her knees, and screams.
Reaching down with his free hand, he grabs a fist full of T-shirt, and rips it away from her chest, exposing two small breasts protected only by a flimsy white bra.
“Go ahead and scream,” he barks, the tears streaming from his poisoned eyes. “Not a soul can hear you.”
Pushing her onto her back, he takes a knee, unbuttons his pants, and pulls them down. He then pulls her jean shorts down, pushing them past her knees. Positioning thick hands between her legs, he pushes them apart with all the ease of pulling apart a rotted log.
“Scream,” he insists. “I like it when you scream.”
He forces himself on her and she feels like her entire body will tear in two.
...Patience, Lana... Be strong...
Reaching out with her right hand, she uses her fingertips to feel for the cold steel blade. She knows that in just a matter of a few seconds, the blade will find its home buried in the step-monster’s skull. Just believing that soon his blood will be spilling all over the orchard floor, makes the pain go away.
He thrusts himself at her like a rabid, wild animal. Rather than resist him, she concentrates only on retrieving the blade. It takes great effort to move the blade one micro inch at a time. But then suddenly, she finds the blade gripped between her index finger and thumb. That’s when she shifts the cleaver around so that she can once more grab hold of the wood handle.
The cleaver back in hand, she does something that agitates the step-monster.
She smiles.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he pants, his voice gravel-filled and coming from a place south of purgatory. “Maybe I’m not working hard enough.”
“Don’t be angry with me, daddy,” she says.
For a brief instant, he stops all movement. A single droplet of sweat falls from the tip of his nose to her pale lips. He shoots her a confused look like he’s suddenly been teleported to another planet.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he says.
“Please don’t be mad,” she says, swinging the meat cleaver around swiftly, burying the blade into the side of his head.
