Faces of Evil

By Michael J. Maguire

This is the part I love, the part I live for. The faces
change. The rambling, stuttering, tear-fi lled pleadings,
I didnt know that, Cant I have a little longer? on
and on, one after another, sounding the same. But its
my favorite part of the job. I love to hear these putrid,
insignifi cant wastes plead for their lives, beg me to spare
them, beg for mercy. What they dont know is that even
if I could, I wouldnt because I enjoy killing too much,
and its not in me to be merciful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479729944

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Michael J. Maguire.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2012918830

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4797-2993-7

Ebook   978-1-4797-2994-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. Date: 06/19/2014

Xlibris LLC

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www.Xlibris.com

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CONTENTS

Evil Among Us

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Epilogue

Run From Evil

Acknowledgement

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Four

Chapter Sixty Five

Chapter Sixty Six

Chapter Sixty Seven

Chapter Sixty Eight

Chapter Sixty Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy One

Chapter Seventy Two

Chapter Seventy Three

Chapter Seventy Four

Chapter Seventy Five

Epilogue

Evil among Us

IN MEMORY OF DANIEL DONATO

A father’s pride, a mother’s unyielding devotion, and a sister’s eternal adoration, he was a young man with unending promise. There are many currents under the surface of still waters, and Danny Donato was a complicated young man with a churning within that he would not and could not show. I recall his smile and the ease in which it came, matched with brightness in his eyes. Danny had a playful intelligence that endeared him to anyone he met. While his twenty years in this world were too short, he has been met in another world with the love and open arms of those sitting in the light of our Creator and those who went before him. My words to Daniel in prayers are that his friends and family carry thoughts of him every day and know he sits in the glow of eternal grace. It was my gift to have met him, and I cannot know the depth of sadness my aunt Barbara and uncle Maurice Donato feel. I hope, as this book is read, the all too few words I have presented in his memory will ensure a written legacy and will help ease the darkness of a future without him.

PROLOGUE

This is the part I love, the part I live for. The faces change. The rambling, stuttering, tear-filled pleadings, I didn’t know that, Can’t I have a little longer? on and on, one after another, sounding the same. But it’s my favorite part of the job. I love to hear these putrid, insignificant wastes plead for their lives, beg me to spare them, beg for mercy. What they don’t know is that even if I could, I wouldn’t because I enjoy killing too much, and it’s not in me to be merciful.

CHAPTER ONE

I was nine when the urges first came to me. The dreams began suddenly one day, then the next day an itching in my brain until the day came that I just did what came natural, what felt right. My name, as given to me at birth, changed many times since then as my true nature would consume me, was Anthony Trager.

When I was growing up, we had a neighbor who loved cats. He had maybe twenty of them, and he really had a special thing for one. It was a big old tomcat named Merlin. It was gray and white with black lines here and there. I had a special thing for that tomcat too—hate pure and simple. What a pain in the ass it was, and what a dick the neighbor was! He was an older guy who had gray hair on the sides of his head and none on top. His name was Mr. Marshall. He was a dumpy little man with no kids and a wife, who left him for the guy doing his lawn. My old man used to say, That son of a bitch is doing more than that asshole’s lawn. But I had no idea what he meant until years later.

He complained to my parents about everything I did—too much noise riding my bike, too close to his house with the ball. Over and over, he brought grievances about me out to my parents. My parents, Mr. Anthony Trager and Mrs. Eileen Trager, would nod and apologize. More than once, I watched the red spread across their cheeks, and I knew I was in for it. I could feel the red in my face too.

With the burning in my cheeks came thoughts that seemed to give me an odd sense of excitement and another feeling deep down that I couldn’t figure out. As they listened to this dumpy, cat-loving piece of shit whine endlessly, my imagination was in overdrive. I imagined putting his head in my dad’s vise and turning the handle round and round. I imagined taking a hammer, and after nailing him to a chair, I would start on his toes, then his fingers, all over his body just smashing and breaking.

When I was thirteen, four years from the first perceptions of my dormant desires, Mr. Marshall was at our door in a tirade about the destruction of his precious gardens. Roses, mums all gone! he yelled. My parents listened intently and, once in a while, glared at me, the anger turning their faces redder than a fire truck, and I knew I was going to catch hell. I could feel the hate building in my stomach then my chest. I felt like a soda can that’s been shaken over and over and is near exploding. My eyes locked onto Mr. Marshall, and I couldn’t look away. My face felt as if it were near catching fire from the heat in my cheeks, and my ears felt numb, like they were filled with cotton. My imagination was in a full run again as I began thinking of a number of atrocities to inflict on Mr. Marshall.

My parents closed the door. They were shaking their heads and sighing in unison as they turned to me. I tried to speak. My mom stuck her left hand out, stopping me even before I could speak; she wiped her forehead with the back of her right hand and walked away. As she walked away head down, shaking from side to side, I felt a blow to the back of my head, sending bright lights across the back of my eyelids as I winced in pain. I rubbed the back of my head and turned to see my dad raising his hand for another strike. I felt an eerie calm wash over me, and I learned something at that moment as his eyes locked onto mine. There was fear in them; he was afraid of me.

Even at thirteen, I was an inch taller than him and was twenty to twenty-five pounds heavier, but the fear I had seen slip across my father’s eyes betrayed a deeper fear than I could understand. The fear was like electricity; the small hairs on my neck and arms stood up. He hesitated for a second then lowered his hand and pulled me by the shirt collar across the room.

My dad tossed me into my bedroom. I slid on my rug, coming to rest alongside my bed. Although the room was darkened as only minimal light shone through the closed blinds, the fear remained in my father’s eyes as he closed the door between us.

As I rubbed the back of my head, I climbed on my bed. I tried to remember every second of his reaction—every single nuance of my father’s expression. I wanted to remember everything because it occurred to me that this would be a very, very important moment in my life. It was a life-changing event, and I had to place it in the part of my brain like an embezzler hiding money or a terrorist hiding bombs.

CHAPTER TWO

Jim Denkins was the man’s name. He was in his late fifties and was about six foot thin but not frail. He looked like a man who had worked hard all his life, and the calluses on his hands spoke to the truth of it. His skin was darkly tanned and heavily wrinkled from years of working outdoors. And I stood over his right shoulder, listening to him prattle on as if we were friends and I gave a shit about anything he said.

But let me go back to the diner and the time leading to the home of Jim Denkins.

Just passing through New Jersey on my way to Atlanta, I received a text message with a number to call. I pulled into a small diner on Route 130 on the edge of a little town named Riverside and used a payphone near the bathroom to call the number in the text.

When I entered the diner, a young woman sitting at a counter behind a large cash register to my right flashed a bright, friendly smile and told me to sit at any open booth or at the counter.

I listened as the man on the other side of the phone gave the instructions for my encounter with Jim Denkins—address, description of his vehicle, etc. I stored the information in my memory. In my business, it paid to have a great memory because anything in writing can and, most likely, will come back to bite you in the ass.

A man with a John Deere baseball cap, white-and-black checkered flannel shirt, brown L. L. Bean duck boots, and jeans with a small hole at the right knee moved from his seat at the counter, where I spotted him when I first walked in, toward the cashier. There was a dark brown-haired woman with a satin floral-print shirt, navy-blue pleated skirt, and high heels, sitting in a booth approximately twenty feet from me. She had gotten up and came to an impatient stop five feet from the man and young girl behind the register. The woman looked down at the two-tone Rolex watch on her wrist, looked up at the man and cashier as they exchanged pleasantries, and rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

As I watched her arrogance and her complete and utter disdain for others, I began to envision taking her snobbish thin neck into my hands and, as I choke the life from her, spit into her face. No, I thought maybe rape her first, strip her of her obvious overinflated value of self, break her down to a sniveling, whining shell of her former self, and then beat her to death with my bare hands, tearing and breaking as I am sure she has done to those around her.

As the last of the information is imparted and stored in the file of Jim Denkins in my head, I hung up the phone and proceeded back to my seat. With security in mind, I sat at the end of the counter, facing the door with only the wall behind me and no booths or seats to my left, which was meant to give me the advantage should I need it.

I was thinking0020about my new assignment, which lay westward from where I sat, in the city of Philadelphia, when I saw Ms. Nose in the Air approach the cashier and rudely hand the young lady behind the register her check. I decided then that I had time for a slight deviation from my appointment with Mr. Denkins, but I would allow the hand of fate to intervene in this arrogant woman’s future.

The woman pulled a wallet from her purse and withdrew bill after bill—not all the way but just enough to ensure the hundred—and fifty-dollar denominations were seen. It was meant as a demonstration of stature for the young lady behind the register and anyone else near enough to this poisonous, prancing ass. With a wave of my hand, I gestured to my waitress, Arlene (the tag on her uniform read), for my check, finished the last of the coffee, tossed the remainder of the apple danish into my mouth, wiped the corners of my lips with a napkin, and began walking toward the two women at the front of the diner.

The woman behind the register looked up at me. As I approached the cashier, I could see the pained expression of a truly defeated person. It was clear in every aspect of her face.

The egotistical display of self-worth and possessions continued as she turned the wallet to display numerous credit cards. As I passed, I looked down at the register and noticed the six-inch pin that was used to impale the checks on. I had to use a great deal of restraint not to grab this obnoxious bitch by the back of the head and drive her head down onto the checks, thereby driving the pin into her brain and sparing this world of another cancerous being.

CHAPTER THREE

My plan was simple. She would be spared if I was wrong. I wagered to myself that this woman had not left a tip, not so much as a penny, and if I were right and she left nothing, then she would die a horrible, excruciating death. If I was wrong and a tip was left, then she would live to continue torturing those who inhabited the world with her but cared nothing about.

The busboy had not arrived at the table; therefore, the remnants of her meal and everything else lay untouched. I leaned over and picked up two packets of sugar as if this were my intent and not to discern any presence of money on the table. I quickly pocketed the packets, turned from the table, and walked toward the cash register.

Apparently, the women had decided to use a hundred-dollar bill to pay the cashier, who was just finishing counting out the remainder of change due from payment of a four-dollar-and-sixty-cent check. The young lady behind the register was clearly flustered. She was in her early twenties, with lustrous blond hair and lively hazel eyes. She was very attractive, but encounters such as this and a future of exposure to an atmosphere of grease and chaotic hours would quickly rob her of any beauty save what remained inside.

The rich hag finished placing every bill individually into her wallet and tossed the remaining change into a small zipped pocket inside her purse. I patiently waited as she took the time to arrange her money at the register again, oblivious to anyone or anything around her. She turned to me, pulled her purse toward her body as if I were a potential purse snatcher, let a low growl, then walked out the door.

Sorry… sorry, sir, the cashier said, brushing a loose curl of hair from her forehead.

That’s okay, no worries, I said, smiling.

Here you go, honey. My waitress, Arlene, met me at the counter with my check and handed it to the young lady as she drove the check of the obnoxious woman onto the fierce-looking pin holding twenty to thirty prior checks on it. I wonder what they would say if I asked to borrow it. I thought to myself, thinking how it might sound as I plunged it through the eye of the thoughtless being that just left.

Thank you, Arlene. And here you go. I held a twenty-dollar bill toward the woman, who looked at it in disbelief.

I… I… it was… You only got a coffee and danish, honey. That’s not necessary. As she spoke, I noticed she wore no ring, but there was a faded whitish line around her ring finger, which meant she was probably recently divorced or separated and more than likely had mouths to feed at home.

It’s okay, dear, it was a great coffee and awesome danish. I urged the bill toward her, and she carefully took it and placed it into a pocket on her apron. She thanked me, blushing as she did so, and returned to her waitressing duties.

That will be three dollars and forty-six cents, mister, the blond beauty behind the register said. The exchange with the waitress had set my schedule back a little, but manners were important and impatience was a road to mistakes and must be avoided at all costs, so I smiled and carefully handed her ten dollars.

You keep the change. I smiled and began to walk away. I had no doubt that my prey was still in the parking lot, checking her makeup, adjusting her hair, verbally abusing someone on her phone.

Are you sure, mister? I mean, I didn’t do anything. I was sorry about that lady, but I… The young blonde was holding the money in her hand.

Yeah, go ahead, it’s okay. And don’t worry—in the end, some people get what’s coming to them. I winked, picked a stale mint from a tray next to the register, then started toward the front door.

As I reached the door, I turned to find the pretty cashier still holding the money at arm’s length. There was a look of curiosity on her face as the strength and certainty in my words may have struck her as too assured. I winked at her again and pushed through the doors past the second door and into the light of the day. I began looking for the target and spotted her sitting in her 2011 Lexus, applying a new coating of makeup using the visor mirror.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was scary how predictable people could be, but amusing as well, and I enjoyed the thrill of the game as I wagered the fate of various people against the very nature of humanity. I allowed the future of certain individuals to be dictated by their action or inaction, and it was a great sport and extremely entertaining to be a player in the cycle of fate or destiny, to work at thinning the herd—a predator with a godlike purpose. To bear witness to a man or woman who misses the hand of death simply by their actions is a rush better than any drug or drink.

As she finished redoing her face and hair, she reversed out of the parking spot and headed toward the lot exit. And as could be expected, she revved her highly expensive engine and pulled into traffic, wasting no time to apply the brakes as she cut off a driver in an older Nissan Sentra. And with the usual response born out of reckless arrogance, she lowered her window in order to extend her left hand and the middle finger on it. As I slowly came to a stop at the exit and assured that the lane is clear of traffic, I could see the Lexus at a light that had turned red two hundred yards up the road. I pulled into traffic, ensuring that three or four cars remained between us, and if not, I simply changed lanes. She would not suspect she was being followed, but I assumed nothing and, therefore, remained free and alive.

We had driven for approximately seven miles when she pulled into the parking lot of a realty company. I drove past the lot and pulled into a store entrance and parked there. As I drove into the entrance of a Dunkin’ Donuts store, I pulled into one of the parking spaces located along the road I had just been on. It also afforded me an uninhibited view of the realty office.

The name of the realty agency was Anderson Realty, and in just a short time, I would discover that the woman I now pursued was Mrs. Lidia Anderson, part owner with her husband. I would learn of this as I went through her home after I killed her.

Mrs. Anderson left through the front of the office and shouted something through the closing door and briskly walked to her car. Within moments, she again pulled into traffic. I watched the stores, homes, and buildings whisk by on this bustling highway in New Jersey. In my years of using this odd north-south highway in New Jersey, I had seen it go from an occasional clutter of traffic to a constant jumble of shoppers and travelers. I would need to find a new and less-used route, I thought. Mrs. Anderson was five cars ahead of me; she turned right onto a road that lay just before an overpass, and I cautiously turned to follow, ensuring to now use distance as a method of pursuit and avoid discovery.

We had only been on this road, River Road, to be exact, five and a half minutes when she turned right into a cul-de-sac. I turned the corner and entered the cul-de-sac slowly, holding back slightly in order to spot Mrs. Anderson and avoid arousing curiosity as an unusual visitor. Mrs. Anderson drove her car into the driveway of an unimaginative stone monstrosity on the left.

I looked upon these immense testaments to the egos with utter disgust. Each and every one spoke of one thing: greed. The lawns, neat and manicured, had no characteristics of artistic attention. The plants, bushes, and trees uniform from one to the other. There was no imagination in the architecture in the building of the homes; brick and stone were the most inventive planning of artistic tone that went into the planning of the homes. I wanted to conduct my business as fast as possible and be away from this nightmarish display of America’s diminishing respect for the art of building and artistic home-developing.

I drove slowly up the street—now intent on observing Mrs. Anderson—and away from the horrid landscape around me. I pulled in her driveway moments after she had closed her large wooden front door. I slowly opened the driver’s side door and walked toward the front door. It was extremely difficult to avoid walking faster than I was. When approaching a victim or their home, any haste will usually ensure remembrance by those who may be watching, so I walked steadily and casually to the front of the Anderson home.

As I turned and looked up and down the street, I placed thin leather gloves with plastic gloves inserted within them to provide doubled precaution from discovery. With a gloved hand, which comforted me in that I would not be making contact with this hideous abode of excess and ignorance, I rang the doorbell, and from inside the home, I could hear the sounds of bells playing.

Within seconds, Mrs. Anderson approached the door, and without even the slightest hesitation, much as she did when driving, she swung the door inward, unaware that she had sealed her doom. Disregarding all common sense because of complete arrogance and believing she could suffer no wrong or no ill intent, she was mistaken but would be unable to use the knowledge beyond the next few hours.

Yes, what can— she began. But as I applied the two points of a stun gun into her ribs and sent a dose of incapacitating energy through her body, she was unable to finish the sentence.

CHAPTER FIVE

As she lay twitching and moaning on the tiled foyer of her home, I turned, peering out at the street and looking to see if anyone had witnessed my invasion of Mrs. Anderson’s home. I saw no landscapers and no onlookers, either by car or nearby homeowners. The quiet and peacefulness of neighborhoods such as this are perfect hunting grounds for the predators of the world.

While I placed the stun gun back into a pocket inside my suit coat, I reached down and pushed the feet of Mrs. Anderson out of the path of the door so that I could close it. As I held the door in my left hand, I turned and again surveyed the road in front of the house. Satisfied that there were no witnesses, I closed the door and set about my work.

The woman lying at my feet now looked up at me as more and more control of her body returned. The fear and terror in her eyes, on her face, gave me great pleasure. Mrs. Anderson no longer appeared to suffer from the same caustic personality characteristics that were present right up until I pressed the metal nubs of the stun gun into her body.

With no pity or remorse, only the anticipation of what lay in store for the prostrated creature of excess that lay at my feet, I grabbed a handful of hair and began dragging her away from the front door and farther into the home. She was only able to grunt and moan slightly as the effects of the stun still worked on her nervous system.

As I moved toward an archway, which lay only forty feet from the door, I stopped and listened intently to discern sounds that may reveal any others within the home. There were no sounds from the home. My good fortune held, and Mrs. Anderson’s misfortunes were just beginning.

Still dragging Mrs. Anderson, I proceeded under the archway and into a large living room / family room that had a mixture of antique pieces and modern floral-print furniture. The room was well lit as the sun of the day poured through several windows, the larger of which was a bay window that faced the street. The bay window was also large and allowed visibility from the home and into the home; therefore, I decided to search the home for some place to finish my work.

Withdrawing the stun gun from my coat, the terror once again crossing Mrs. Anderson’s face, and savoring her discomfort, I slowly placed it to her neck, stooping toward her as I did it. The look on her face was magnificent. I knew that in her mind there was but one thought, Why me? Why me? And all this was worthy of appreciable enjoyment, but I needed to get on with the task at hand. There was a buzzing sound, the smell of electrified flesh, then her feet begun thrumming onto the hardwood floors as I pressed the device farther and harder into the soft skin of her neck.

Where I had placed the stun gun just below her left ear was an ugly red mark, and I could see drool stringing from the right corner of her mouth and pooling on the floor. I stood up and, still holding the stun gun in my hand, walked away from the semiconscious Mrs. Anderson.

As I progressed throughout the home, I was again angered by the grotesque display of materialistic greed. There were huge plasma TVs in all the four bedrooms on the second floor; high-lacquer bedroom furniture that were much too large cluttered the rooms as well. The bedroom at the end of the hall was obviously the master suite and was the most unpleasant of all. It was floral from side to side: wallpaper, lampshades, the fine detail on the furniture, and even the bed linen had green leaves and vines with pink and red flowers throughout. If Mr. Anderson had been part of the decorating process or even an occupant of this room, it would be easy to imagine that either he was gay or he simply had given his testicles to his wife for safekeeping. I suddenly wished that I had been able to include the man of the house in my plans.

With time ticking at a steady, unyielding beat, I quickly appraised the remaining bedrooms, two of which were for each of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson’s two daughters, and the third was apparently used as a storage and workout room. As I descended the stairway from the second floor, I was holding on to the idea that since there were three full bathrooms, the one in the master bedroom would best suit my purpose. But in the interest of thoroughness, I would look through the entire home.

Of the rooms on the ground floor, the kitchen had appealed to me the most for what must be done. There was a large selection of cutlery and a nice marble-topped island in the middle. But unfortunately, there was an abundance of windows also.

The kitchen adjoined what appeared to be a large formal dining room, and as I passed from the sandstone-tile flooring of the kitchen to a large oriental rug covering hardwood flooring, I noticed a door. At first I had assumed that this door led into a small powder room, but as I opened the door, the bright sunlight revealed steps leading to what had to be a cellar or maybe some type of workroom—if my good fortune continued.