Faces of Evil: Fourth Face of Satan

By Ken Bickley

Faces of Evil is a pounding, suspense, heart-rendering adventure romance about Kerrie, a young successful international financial lawyer who finds herself in war for her very soul. Driven by a desire to prover herself as a professional female in a male-dominated world, she plunges into a world where death and violence are normal occurrences. Her professional life camouflages her deep inner emptiness through burying herself burying herself in her job.

The story begins with a masked intruder breaking into her home and terrorizing her, claiming her as his 'Soulmate'.The experience traumatizes her, but she has no time to dwell on her personal concerns because a promotion at her job sends her on a perilous business trip. She finds herself trapped in a revolution and the leader of the revolution kidnaps her to use as a bargaining chip. Dominique, her custodian for the kidnapper and sworn to kill her if ordered to do so, slowly falls in love with her in a bizarre reverse 'Stockholm' syndrome situation. Upon her release, he realizes he must never see her again.

As we follow her through her challenges, we witness a gradual dawning in her that she has unwittingly lost the battle for her soul– acting as windows of her soul, her eyes reflect her soul's slow deterioration. Initially a hazel brown, first one, then the other change into ice cold blue. An unanticipated health crisis hurls her into an existential crisis resulting from a medical prediction of her imminent death, a lonely painful death. Unloved, alone, and isolated, instead of crashing into a depression, she undergoes an epiphany and reacts with joy, jubilation, and relief. However, try as she might, she is unable to quell the feeling that a void still exists in her life, a void that must be filled before the story ends

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667865188

Book preview

Prologue

I am old and I am dying as I write this. I laugh. I have been dying since the day I was born. What is the big deal? The Grim Reaper is quite a tease; forty years ago, the best medical minds gave me six months to live; ten years ago they gave me two years. Am still here. He sure is a tease.

Before it is too late, I am compelled to cry out a warning: There is Evil in this world. We simply do not recognize it. Cleverly disguised, it is sly, deceptive. It subtly tempts us, seduces us, and ensnares us without our being aware of it. We do not recognize it when we are face-to-face with it, yet it lurks everywhere. The modern generations do not seem to believe it exists.

Let me give you an example:

To me, ‘Evil’ or the ‘Devil’ was a fairy tale, silly stuff, like the boogeyman. Then I met it up close and failed to recognize it. It was no fairy tale. There was a friend of mine with whom I played chess on a weekly basis. He was an excellent chess player; only once did I even tie him. He was urbane, sociable, sophisticated, wealthy, cultured, a gastronomist, a wine connoisseur, a lover of classical music, married to a beautiful woman. Several years,  one morning at breakfast, I opened up the newspaper and his face stared back at me. The Police arrested him and charged him with having been n charge of a concentration camp where he gassed thousands of Jews. This kind, polite man — I never even saw it. I had admired and envied him. He was Evil Incarnate.

My narrative is that of a person who has met Evil face-to-face several times. I was naïve; tempted and seduced. Never did I recognize what was seizing control of my soul. I succumbed and then fought back. Never have I questioned the justness of my actions

Surely the destruction of an agent of Evil is justified. But that is my judgement of myself; when ‘dust returns unto dust’ it will not be my judgement which counts.

Chapter 1 The Intruder

An up-and-coming attorney and financial executive, Kerrie Barrett peers through the steam as she enjoys the pounding of the shower’s water on her back and head. With the steam blinging er eyes, her mind flashes back to her now ex-lover, Harry. He was ‘the one’. Memories of cuddling together, spooning intimately on Sunday mornings, letting the rest of the world fly by, flood her mind as a slight smile lights up her face under the water drenching her skull. We almost moved in together, were going to be married. The tears of her eyes blend with the shower water as she starts to cry.

Abruptly she shakes her head, her mane of reddish, brown, blond streaked hair, engulfing her. Get back to reality, she chastises herself as a burning anger grabs hold of her, leaving a tight knot in her stomach. More tears flood down her cheeks.

Gotta shake it off, gotta get back onto the horse! she encourages herself. muttering aloud. To cheer herself up, she belts out in a loud soprano voice, competing with the roar of the shower,

Fretted, fretted about Italy, trip to Italy, so much money, but the beauty, the beauty of those marigold and rose tiles, marigold and rose, and oh, the sizzling red and yellow – Yeah, Girl, oh, oh yeah, you slammed it, slammed it! Take a bow, take a bow wow, wow.

Damn, just love Saturdays. No work, a play day, sit back and just be. Rub-a-dub-dub, ain’t no men in my tub. Rub-a-dub. Do your thing loofah.

Loofah sensuously massaging her back, cinnamon scented body wash bubbling down her chest, her thick flowing hair devours the orange scented conditioner. With a sigh of contentment, she rinses herself off and sings,

Sad to say, but the shower has gone its way.

Reaching out with her left hand, she turns off the tap, wipes the steam off the glass door, bends over to perform a graceful ‘Morning Salutation Pose’ with her hair tickling the floor. All the water shaken off her hair, she puts her hand out of the shower stall, fumbling to reach her towel to dry herself. What the…? That’s strange. Could’ve sworn I put the towel on the hook with my bathrobe.

Balancing on her right foot, she carefully slides her left foot on the slippery tiles, cautiously steps out of the shower searching for her towel, one eye squinting, half-closed. Her foot slips. She slips and lands on her tail bone. A rough hand reaches into the stall and seizes her wrist in a vice-like grip. A male voice whispers, Need a towel?

Kerrie tries to yank her hand away as she recoils into the stall. The grip holds tight. Terrified, she tries to stand, screams as her legs buckle and splay wide apart. Shrieking she collapses onto the shower floor, her arm twisting painfully. She yelps in agony, her head smashes onto the floor and her tailbone bashes onto the divider between the shower stall and the bathroom floor. The steam stings her eyes as she flails away trying to hide her nakedness.

The intruder releases his grip of her hand only to seize a fistful of her hair; his other hand covers her mouth to stifle her screams.

He orders her, Hush up, woman. Stop squirming and listen carefully.

Her mind races…He’s going to rape me…what can I do. Can’t bite him, maybe kick him in the balls, karate chop him…leap up to head but him….oh crap, I can’t move my arms, he’s got my hair…ow…here comes his hand…NOW!

To her amazement he shows no signs of intending to rape her. Tenderly kissing her on the forehead, his eye gleam brightly, radiantly through the fog.

Blood pounding, her head aching, she tries to peer through the steam and shake off the salty hand that is squeezing her lips shut. Gasping for air, she writhes and struggles to breathe. Her parch-dried throat emits a pitiful squawk. In a frenzy, she swings both arms blindly at her attacker.

Be still or I’ll have to punish you, he growls, his huge red lips snake across her forehead again. The voice burns her skin burns like a steer being branded.

In a desperate effort to free herself she falls back striking the back of her head against the wall of her floral tiles. The tiles swim in front of her eyes as she lies huddled and stunned. Dizzy, numb with fear, she slumps shaking on the floor, her legs awkwardly curled up beneath her. Her ears hum to the rhythm of the shower faucet slowly dripping − drip, drip, dripping. Her mind blanks, her nose oozes bloody pink droplets, her knees cling tightly closed in a vain effort to maintain a semblance of modesty.

Please, he beseeches, I asked you to listen to me and NOT to move! his voice soothes her. Let me wipe the blood from your nose. I did not mean to hurt you. Never would I hurt the mother of my child. Tenderly he wipes her nose as though she is an infant.

Peering through the steam Kerrie sucks in her breath, stunned by his gentleness. ‘Mother of his child? What is he talking about? Better play along in case he is dangerous.’ Inhaling deeply, she settles on her butt and focuses on looking through the steam. She sees a male wearing jeans, a black shirt, a worn pair of running shoes, no socks. Her eyes focus on his face. She vows to remember it, if she lives, but she sees only a black combat gas mask from his neck to his hair with eyes bulging out like those of a humungous bug. His huge red lips terrify her; his tousled hair hangs loosely over the top of the mask. The eyes mesmerize her, shake her to the core – glistening, joyous, deep blue and piercing, dancing with fire portals into Hell.

Wrenching her eyes away from his face, she glances at his crotch – no sign of arousal, that’s good, flashes through her mind. Unable to withstand the attraction of his eyes, she feels her eyes drawn to the bulges below his forehead where his eyes should be. They seem to have a magnetism slowly drawing her into him. Bizarrely she is not shaking even though she is still wet,

A shiver flits down her spine. A wave of despair overwhelms her, far worse than her fear of his raping her. His eyes warn of a rape of her, of a violation of her soul, her stomach flip flops, her most intimate parts tingle. She shakes with terror, her mind racing to find a judo move or a karate move that will strike down her adversary, but her mind is blank. Panic overwhelms her because she senses deep within her, no such physical moves will save her.

Soothingly he rasps, Good girl, just relax, chill. Gabriel has sent me. He has been watching you for some time, ever since I lost my wife. Now they have selected you to be the mother of my child. He has led me to you and assured me we are to have a child together. I just had to see you in person to look at you to verify you are acceptable to me. The way you are looking at me, I know you feel you are ready for me. Today is our first time together. I’ll leave now but I’ll return soon and you will see me as I really am. We are destined to be together. We have a spiritual unity. The Angels have decreed it; we will spawn a child together. I’ve described it all in the letter I have left on the kitchen table.

Leaning over her, he releases his grip on her hair. The steely stench of his sweat suffocates her. He loosens his hand on her mouth and she gulps in a mouthful of steam. His mask closes in on her face – a monstrous insect, eye to eye. She remains frozen with fear, immobile, paralyzed. Lovingly, tenderly, he places his lips on her forehead, outlining the shape of a cross on her skin as though in a baptism, but does not violate any part of her body. At the touch of his lips, she shrinks back with revulsion, forces herself not to retch and squeezes her eyes tightly closed, hoping to avoid the hypnotic spell of his eyes. Choking on the garlic stench of his breath, she tries not to inhale. He looks at her as though she is supposed to say something. Wheezing, she is unable to speak. There is silence. Finally, he whispers, "I will see you soon when you have had time to digest my news. Adieu, Pax vobiscum."

Cringing, Dear God, she silently beseeches. Who is this crack pot? Me, have his child?? Gabriel chose me? Who or what is Gabriel? Isn’t that the name of a pizza chain? How did this looney tune get into my apartment? And there I am buck naked unable to break free from him Those eyes!!! So reptilian…Please, please make him leave me alone. I promise I will do anything, anything, just make him go away. Why could I not kick him, scratch him, bite him?

Unaware of the passage of time, she sits naked, petrified and quivering on the floor of the steam filled shower. Her will to live sapped, she has no idea what she can do against this Monster from the Angels. The police would be of no use against him. She dries herself and crawls into her bed, her refuge. Suddenly she leaps out to look for his letter. She picks up the letter he left for her, the love letter of a Monster. Her stomach revolts and she bolts into the bathroom where she vomits. Staggers to her bed and lies trembling and quivering. Huddled under her cozy eiderdown, she lies cocooned for the whole day, without eating or drinking. The one sign of life is her frantic attempt to rub the Monster’s kiss off her forehead, forever deleting its indelible imprint.

Sunday leaves her still in bed. In total silence and solitude, she struggles to recover her will to return to her daily life. For her, life has changed. Never again would a sunset or sunrise thrill her. The spontaneous songbird in her has died, slaughtered by fear. She, her very soul and essence, was silenced. He had vowed to return; this vow was one he would keep This she knows.

On Monday morning she awakes very early, praying that the weekend had been just a bad dream. Today she absolutely has to be able to function; work summons her. Still, she remains for hours with her head under her pillow, dreading to open her eyes. Those vile eyes penetrate her consciousness. If she gets out of bed, he will be there, standing at the side of her bed ready to grab her hand. Every time the floors creak, a shutter bangs in the wind, her heart stops, her bowels churn. Every pipe groan or moan heralds his return. Minutes turn into hours; her alarm demands she rise and resume her daily life. Nevertheless, her fear and terror persist, relentlessly possessing her. She is unable to escape the Monster’s spell.

Chapter 2 The Million Dollar Understanding

Fighting a splitting headache and a stomach in turmoil, I brace myself to face any possible danger and crawl out of bed around ten. The thought of taking a shower horrifies me. No way could I enter into my shower stall. The pungent odor of stale sweat seems to drench me. Bluntly put, I simply have to summon the courage to shower. A multitude of steaming hot showers later, my skin remains slimy as a snake’s, his foul odor still glued to me.

Must get back into my routine, I mumble. Part of my routine is a Tai Chi routine, a short eight-step one. Unfortunately, my mind is not into it as it keeps flipping back to the Monster. Reluctantly I grab my least dirty white blouse and business black skirt. My hair resembles my long-deceased Siberian husky’s matted mane, my lipstick splashed on all awry, my eye shadow hurriedly plastered on, week-old cracked nail polish, I drown the Monster’s odors with perfume. One final glance in the mirror – I stop dead. My ears are naked! Never do I leave home without my earrings! My ears look ugly. My collection of earrings is designed to harmonize with any possible mood I might be in. Black pearl – despair, hopelessness? Or red pearl– angry at the world: I choose a red for the right ear, black for the left.

Let’s see if anyone dares to say anything. Why be conventional, I challenge the world. I stagger off to work several hours late. So preoccupied with the Monster, I barely notice the dreary, rainy summer morning or the crowd on the subway. If anyone’s looking at me, I can’t care less, so preoccupied am I with spotting the Monster.

A wave of the stale Monday smoke slaps me in my face welcoming me to my office. My eyes blink and squint in a plaintive response to the office’s cruel lighting. Strangely no long stares at me; no one notices the mark of the Monster’s kiss; no ear ring comments from my co-workers who, like busy bees steadily buzzing in conversation, mindlessly, plod on with their Monday morning routines. My nostrils twitch and itch at the smell of the omnipresent fragrances of perfume and after shave. Guess no one (including me today) takes seriously the policy forbidding fragrances, rationalizing they beat the ‘natural’ human aroma by a country mile.

During summer time activities tend to slow down in the international financial field, especially on the legal side. That is my field of expertise, both financial and legal. Even though I am a woman, my career is doing just great with a client who is a major player in the world of international finance. (Only in my late twenties, I am on the fast track to promotion as the first female V-P ever. Frankly who cares if it might be a result of affirmative action.) The money is superb and I have achieved a level of success my older brother would be envious of. (For once, at long last, I have been able to beat him.) Sure, my looks play a part. I mean who can resist the guiles of a young (well youngish) beautiful, well-shaped female (OK, maybe not too well-shaped because my breasts are a bit smallish, my hips a teeny, weeny bit wide, both handicaps made up by my great butt and my legs are shaped just right thanks to my amateur athleticism as a runner. My knock-em-dead smile and piercing hazel brown eyes slay the male dominated field, leaving the guys weak-kneed, down for the count, fantasizing my bod is meant only for them. (Good luck on that!) Toss in a heap of pheromones, add blondish (streaks only) hair. They always underestimate a blonde with all their ‘dumb blonde’ jokes. How I pity them!

Normally I dress like a model. Just have to have a proper stylist, just enough cleavage (a little peek will do ya) for the business world. If truth be known, I am cracker jack smart, with a capital S M A R T, really, really smart, if I do say so myself (I know I sound conceited, but I cannot tell a lie.) Clearly the BSS (Big Spirit in the Sky. I will NOT say ‘He’.) overfilled my head at the expense of my chest. My boss, Bill, bespectacled, overweight, balding on top and shaggy on the sides, (He’s ugly as sin, with an uglier than ugly nose sporting a wen.) would die before he let me go. He knows I’m a hot-shot brainiac. Also, a lawyer, he’s the type of lawyer