An Abiding Evil

By Jay Greenstein

Dani Cahn, private investigator, ex-cop, and the daughter of Blackjack Cahn, seeks the monster who tortured and murdered her man. That won't be easy. She’s a skilled detective, true, but her specialty is catching cheating husbands, not homicidal maniacs. And as if that's not enough of a problem, Dani can't bring herself to fire her pistol in anger. That matters because the monster she seeks is hungry for her blood. But the worst of all is Norman Lieb. Somehow no matter how much she tries to dislike the man it isn't working.

Norman is a businessman, not a hero, one who sells blood to vampires for a living. Now, the most fascinating woman he’s ever met is in trouble, and it’s up to him to save her life...again. And as if that weren't enough, he and Dani must face a six hundred year old abiding evil, or become his victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Greenstein
• Release date: May 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311859549

Jay Greenstein

I'm a storyteller. My skills at writing are subject to opinion, my punctuation has been called interesting, at best—but I am a storyteller. I am, of course, many other things. In seven decades of living, there are great numbers of things that have attracted my attention. I am, for example, an electrician. I can also design, build, and install a range of things from stairs and railings to flooring, and tile backsplashes. I can even giftwrap a box from the inside, so to speak, by wallpapering the house. I'm an engineer, one who has designed computers and computer systems; one of which—during the bad old days of the cold war—flew in the plane designated as the American President's Airborne Command Post: The Doomsday Jet. I've spent seven years as the chief-engineer of a company that built bar-code readers. I spent thirteen of the most enjoyable years of my life as a scoutmaster, and three, nearly as good, as a cubmaster. I joined the Air Force to learn jet engine mechanics, but ended up working in broadcast and closed circuit television, serving in such unlikely locations as the War Room of the Strategic Air Command, and a television station on the island of Okinawa. I have been involved in sports car racing, scuba diving, sailing, and anything else that sounded like fun. I can fix most things that break, sew a fairly neat seam, and have raised three pretty nice kids, all of who are smarter and prettier than I am—more talented, too, thanks to the genes my wife kindly provided. Once, while camping with a group of cubs and their families, one of the dads announced, "You guys better make up crosses to keep the Purple Bishop away." When I asked for more information, the man shrugged and said, "I don't really know much about the story. It's some kind of a local thing that was mentioned on my last camping trip." Intrigued, I wondered if I could come up with something to go with his comment about the crosses; something to provide a gentle terror-of-the-night to entertain the boys. The result was a virtual forest of crosses outside the boys' tents. That was the event that switched on something within me that, now, more than twenty-five years later, I can't seem to switch off. Stories came and came… so easily it was sometimes frightening. Stories so frightening that one boy swore he watched my eyes begin to glow with a dim red light as I told them (it was the campfire reflecting from my ...

Book preview

Jay Greenstein

Jay Greenstein

All rights reserved

Published by Continuation Services at SmashWords

Copyright 2014

Other Titles by Jay Greenstein:

Science Fiction

As Falls an Angel

Samantha and the Bear

Foreign Embassy

Hero

Monkey Feet

An Accidental War

Starlight Dancing

Wizards

Trilogy of the Talos

(Sci-fi)

To Sing the Calu

Portal to Sygano

Ghost Girl

Sisterhood of the Ring

(Sci-fi)

Water Dance

Jennie’s Song

A Change of Heart

A Surfeit of Dreams

Kyesha

Abode Of The Gods

Living Vampire

An Abiding Evil

Ties of Blood

Blood Lust

Modern Western

Posse

Romantic Suspense

A Chance Encounter

Kiss of Death

Intrigue/Crime

Necessity

Betrayal

Hostage

Young Adult

My Father My Friend

Romance

Zoe

Breaking the Pattern

Short Story

A Touch of Strange

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious and created by the author for entertainment purposes. Any similarities between living and non-living persons are purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

As Falls an Angel

February Eighth

Honey? Dani closed the apartment door, dropped the suitcase, and put her purse on the table.

Alex, are you home? No answer. With a shrug, she checked the week’s accumulation of mail on the table by the door. Nothing but bills and advertisements.

She gave thought to changing into a negligee, but settled for brushing her teeth, plus a bit of hair and makeup touchup. The long drive home, spent thinking about Alex, and what they would be doing together after five long days of separation, insured that anything she was wearing would be gone soon after he arrived.

With that taken care of she needed a distraction, so she carried the suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked it, then smoothed the bedding in preparation for use, muttering, Damn it, Alex, where the hell are you when I need you?

Though the clock said he’d been off-shift for two hours, his not being home said he was probably playing detective, because he still wasn’t answering his phone.

Ah well...men are so damn single-minded. But on the other hand, they did have redeeming features, Alex more than most.

So much more so than most.

For a long moment, she stood, eyes closed, remembering. But that made things worse, so she glanced at the clock. There was just enough time to toss something in the oven—something for a romantic dinner to celebrate her return home.

Okay, world, she announced. If the lord and master isn’t here to play, we have Dani Cahn, chef to the stars, at your service, instead.

The idea that she, the woman who hated cooking, was becoming a domestic diva, and a wife, brought warmth to her thoughts.

Only two weeks until he truly was her man, in every sense of those words, when Ms. Dani Cahn became Mrs. Alex Sebold.

She pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen, glowing inside. The crunch of glass underfoot brought her back to earth.

What in the... An overpowering mixture of food smells filled the air. She flipped on the light switch, and without thought, dropped into a martial arts stance, ready to attack or defend.

The contents of the refrigerator, including the shelving, were spread across the tile floor—thrown there, with food spatter showing on walls and cabinets. It was, without doubt, a crime scene. Recognizing that, habit and training took over and she began analyzing the situation. Bottles and containers were shattered, but the pattern showed they’d been thrown to the floor and deliberately broken, from a point away from the fridge. Someone had emptied the fridge, closed the door, then heaved everything back toward it, to create a deliberate pattern of spilled food. The mixture of smells contained no elements of decay, so it was done recently. But why? And by whom?

But of more importance, it was no longer a given that she was alone, and that had to be the first order of business. She whirled, and hurried to snatch up her pistol from the bedroom, then made a quick pass through the apartment, checking closets and under the bed.

Nothing.

Satisfied, she called the police, then found herself unable to leave the kitchen. Good sense demanded that she meet the police in the hall, at the elevator. Logic demanded that, too. But she could neither abandon nor open the refrigerator, so in the end, she set the apartment door ajar, then returned to the kitchen, unable to stay, unwilling to leave

Dani Cahn?

She jerked and reached for the pistol, but stopped. The police had arrived, so she forced a measure of calm and went into the living room. Two uniformed policemen stood at the apartment door, faces showing concern. She took a deep breath, then pointed toward the kitchen, saying, I found... It was like this when I came home, maybe twenty minutes ago.

One of the officers came to where she stood, while his partner remained just inside the apartment door, pistol drawn but pointed at the floor, studying the apartment intently.

She moved clear of the kitchen doorway to allow the officer access. With a massive effort of will, she forced herself to add, And, my fiancé isn’t answering his phone—hasn’t... She took a breath. And he hasn’t answered it since Tuesday.

Two days? Well has he— Holy shit! Come and look at this, Sam.

The second policeman hurried to the kitchen doorway, his words echoing those of the first. Then he turned to her. Have you touched anything in there?

I was on the force...zone two, so I know better. It seemed inane to mention her posting, but letting habit be her guide was safer than thinking. Allowing logic to guide her conclusions was to be avoided—must be avoided.

She took a breath. It’s exactly as it was, and I’ve done a scan of the apartment. Nothing’s out of place and we’re alone. Whoever it was either picked the lock, had the key, or had Alex open the door. And this was done today, as far as I can tell, so... With the saying of those words, came the admission, to herself, that one way or the other, Alex was directly involved. Swallowing became impossible.

The policeman only grunted. You’ve checked the fridge? His words were for her, but his eyes were still searching the kitchen.

No. A whisper when she’d intended a shout.

The one called Sam turned his partner, whose name badge proclaimed him to be M. Donavan. Shall we wait for the lab people, Mike?

She held her breath. And when the other policeman looked to her, making it her call, she could only mouth, No, while Alex’s name continued to echo in her head, joined by a new word: why?

It would be best if you wait in the other room, Ma’am.

They knew, as did she, what waited behind that closed door. But she could no more will herself to move from that spot than will her heart to stop, though it seemed that it must, if Alex was gone. She shook her head, a tiny movement, but all she could manage.

The policeman nodded acceptance and picked his way through the debris. Once there he motioned to his partner, placing the man to block her view of the refrigerator.

They were very good at their job, and kind. But that gave no comfort.

The refrigerator opened with a tiny pop from the sealing strip, followed by the creak of the hinge. Silence, then, Oh my fucking God...he’s a cop and I know him.

He turned, then, as he snapped, Sam, you need to get her out of here, right now!

But it was too late. The policeman in front of her was slim, and in turning, the other policeman moved clear of the refrigerator for just an instant, bringing the glimpse of a face, or what was left of one. It was Alex.

Time stopped. Thought stopped. Life stopped.

She allowed the officer to guide her to the sofa, and she sat at his command. He was crying, which seemed strange. Everything seemed strange, even the keening wail of a woman’s screaming—a sound that went on and on, and seemed almost to be in her voice.

Later, before the ambulance arrived, when her screams had become exhausted whimpers, they did their best to comfort her. It didn’t help. Nothing helped, or ever would. And all the while, Alex’s name echoed in her thoughts.

° ° ° °

July Tenth – Five months later

Dani stared into her drink, wishing the night was over. But a job was a job, and given how little attention she’d been paying to business, every account that Discreet Investigations had left mattered.

Certainly, brooding accomplished nothing. The bar was pleasant and the music matched her tastes, so she straightened and paid attention to her surroundings, and her task.

The subject liked his women outgoing, from what his wife said, so scowling into her drink wasn’t going to work.

After two declined passes from men on the prowl, Mr. Jake Stone finally came through the door, wearing a hunter’s smile. As he ambled toward the bar his eyes were seeking prey. She deliberately turned toward him, and when his eyes swept over her she was ready, head cocked slightly, giving him the once-over, too.

Their eyes met, and she deliberately maintained eye contact for several beats, in what a book on sexuality called a copulatory glance, designed to show interest—a trait shared by all mammals, the author claimed. She broke off eye contact and shyly smiled, as though a bit embarrassed, but pleased, giving a little toss of the head to settle her hair—another mammalian mating custom. Then she turned to her drink, deliberately avoiding him. The bait was in the water.

Well, I swear, you are the prettiest little thing. The accent was Texas, as envisioned by a local who’d never been there.

Strike one.

She turned, to find Mr. Stone settling onto the stool next to her. The bartender raised an eyebrow and pointed at the man, inquiring as to what he might want. While he and the bartender did their business, she cataloged the subject. Twenty pounds overweight, most of it doing battle with the over-tightened belt of his very expensive suit. Hair styled and arranged to conceal significant thinning at the crown. Cologne surrounded him in a cloud, announcing that it was recently applied, probably in the car as he parked. A pinky ring decorated one hand, chosen for glitz rather than beauty, she was sure. Left hand still carrying the imprint of a wedding band—something else taken care of as he made ready to leave his car.

Strike two.

He gestured toward her drink. She smiled and nodded an okay, then remarked on one of the bar’s paintings to distract him, while she snapped a picture of Mr. Stone and his ringless hand.

So where would that ring be? As physical evidence, it would add weight to her testimony. Either way, though, Mrs. Stone was going to end up with a very nice settlement.

Why so sad, honey-child?

Honey-child? She clamped down on the urge to roll her eyes. God protect me from down-home wannabees. She gave him an appreciative smile. It wasn’t easy. The past hour with Stone made focusing on the man even more difficult. It wasn’t a matter of if he was cheating. That had been settled ten seconds after he took a seat by her. The question was why any woman in her right mind would leave a bar with him.

She forced herself back into the here and now, a task made more difficult by his phony good old boy persona, and by echoes of Alex that circled endlessly in her mind.

Like a tongue probing the socket of a newly extracted tooth, her thoughts were drawn more and more often to Alex, and the unanswerable questions jostling for position in those thoughts. Had she not been out of town, would Alex still be alive? That question gnawed. Were she to have been at home when the apartment was invaded, could she have protected him? Would the two of them, together, have been enough to stop a maniac?

Honey?

Damn! She’d done it again. She suppressed the smoldering anger that dwelling on Alex and his death evoked, and her annoyance with Jake Stone and his phony ways. Now certainly wasn’t the time to lose focus.

Me, sad? She forced a smile. No, just... She shrugged. You’ve danced my feet off, and those gimlets I’ve been drinking have me just a little addled.

A convenient lie. The bills she slipped to the bartender before he arrived insured that whatever vodka he poured in her glass was water, keeping her senses sharp. Now, she leaned toward him a bit and stroked his cheek, before sitting up and saying, So tell me...are you always married, or only when you’re with your wife?

She waited, smile teasing, not accusing, her tone that of someone interested, not a woman saying goodbye. Time to push him a bit.

He cocked his head. What? I’m not... He stopped, shaking his head as he said, Okay, you’ve got me. Guilty as charged. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he added, You’re good, honey. How did you—

When you came in there were ring marks on your finger. She tapped him on the nose, and laughed. You need to take it off when you leave the office, not when you park the car, silly.

So, you know I’m married, but you still—

She laughed. I never buy when I can rent. He joined her in laughter, as she leaned toward him, mapping his chest with her palm in a caress.

Bingo! The ring was in his shirt pocket. That would be harder to pick, so she went for the obvious, and with an Aha, she fished the ring from his pocket and admired it for a moment before slipping it on her ring finger. Far too big, there, but it worked well on her thumb. She slipped it there, and held her hand out, admiring it.

So, you haven’t answered my question. Are you always married or only when you’re with her?

That’s over, though the divorce isn’t final yet. I don’t know why I still wear the ring. Habit, I figure. He shrugged, then added, It looks better on you, anyhow.

Wrong finger, though.

You have no wrong fingers. He chuckled, then took a breath before saying, "So, we’ve established that I’m a husband and that you’re into renting. Want to rent me for the night?" His eyebrows were raised in question.

Maybe...are you a good husband?

The best.

Attentive?

To a fault.

The current Mrs. Stone, who was feeling rather neglected and unwanted, would debate that point. But to him, she said only, That’s nice, Jake, and though I’d like that, I have to be somewhere tonight. Tomorrow would be wonderful, though. Okay? Say here, at seven? She had all she needed for the report, so it was time to end it on as pleasant a note as possible. If he reported to his wife that the trip tonight had been unexpectedly rescheduled for tomorrow, that, too, would be evidence.

She kissed him on the lips, then pointed to the ring. I’ll keep this till then to be certain you’ll come back.

I—

Call it collateral. She slid from the stool. Meanwhile, I need to visit the ladies room. She kissed him again, then turned and walked away before he could object.

Once out of the bar area she moved to where she couldn’t be seen, to watch him for a moment. No real reason to do so, she already had everything she needed, but something about the man set off alarms.

He was looking around, trying to do it casually, but in reality, checking to be certain no one was watching. Then he reached out, as though stretching, but as his hand passed over the bar—over her drink—his hand opened. Something small dropped into her drink with a tiny splash.

You bastard. So, saying no wasn’t an option when he set his sights on a woman. This affair just went from the civil action of a cheating husband being nailed in the act, to the criminal.

She hurried to find the manager, then flashed her ID, cursing the time it was taking.

Police?

Private investigator. She pointed. That man is the subject tonight.

And?

And it’s turned into a police problem, so I need your help.

He blinked for a moment before saying, So...what do you need from me? His face showed mild curiosity, which was good. Enthusiasm would have been better.

She had about two minutes to return to her seat before he became suspicious so she outlined the problem, then said, I need you to grab that drink for me and preserve it. I’ll get him away from the bar, and while we’re gone, have the bartender replace the drink, and place the one that’s there now in a container of some kind, then seal it, date it, and give it to you for safekeeping.

Me? Why me?

The urge to take the man by the throat to keep him from asking any more questions was overpowering, but with an effort, she reined in her temper and said, You’re my reliable witness...you and the bartender. The police will be taking that sample, and they’re going to want a statement from you, confirming that your bartender made the drink with your materials, at the subject’s request, and without whatever he dropped in. Clear?

Clear. What else?

If you can do it without being obvious about it, I need a picture of the two of us, with the drink sitting in front of us before I get him away from the bar for the switch.

Can do.

Any possibility of catching that operation on video?

My phone has that capability.

"Fantastic...and when that’s done, call the police. You’re doing a lot of women a favor by helping me nail this slimeball."

Thankful, she turned and headed for the bar, and Jake Stone. The anger wasn’t dissipating.

Damn! She stopped for a moment, breathing deeply and centering herself, but stopped when she found herself slipping into the frame of mind of preparing to go into battle. She clamped down on that, unclenched her fists, and resumed walking, cursing under her breath.

Your rental husband missed you, Jake said, as she approached, lifting his glass and adding, A toast to tomorrow night?

With an effort, she kept herself from snarling obscenities. Instead, shook her head and took the glass from his hand, placing it on the bar next to hers. She took his hand to pull him from the stool. "Toast to that when we