Below is an excerpt of The Evil Within Him:
THE EVIL WITHIN HIM
Copyright (c) 2007 Alberta Parish
Chapter 9
Even now, as he sat outside Steve’s home in a rented vehicle, he wondered whether he had remembered to bring his black leather gloves. He certainly did not want to leave fingerprints. That would incriminate him, considering he had a criminal record. At nineteen, he was arrested for attacking his girlfriend after finding out she had cheated on him.
He felt around in the inside pocket of his dark leather jacket. He pulled out a pair of leather gloves, and a sigh of relief escaped his lips. Once again, all was well with the world, or would be, when he was done with the deed he was about to commit.
Steve’s house was red brick, and sat far off the road. Two huge, ancient oak trees towered above, with branches that hung over his roof, as if to protect it. Because this Midtown estate sat far from the surrounding homes, Ken was favored with a huge advantage.
It was 1 a.m. Ken stood in the shadows behind the black Ford Focus that he had acquired from Maximum Car Rental eight hours earlier. He waited patiently for his victim to turn off the lights in the house; something Steve did each night, without fail. Ken knew this because he always studied his prey. He knew Steve’s habits, his likes, and his dislikes. Ken even knew the company Steve kept. On several nights, he had followed him to bars and gay clubs, where Steve desperately searched for love, even if the love came in the package of a one-night stand. The blonde older man accompanying Steve at a Mexican restaurant a year ago turned out to be married with two teenaged boys. After the man left the restaurant, Ken had followed him to the Arts Center train station, where he collected his two boys and a short, heavyset woman who appeared to be pregnant.
While he stood in the darkness, Ken watched as one light was turned off, then a second, then a third. Ken looked at his watch; it was now 1:14 a.m. He darted across the street. He quickly crossed Steve’s front yard and ran around to the right side of the house. He crept stealthily to the rear of the house. Once at the back door, he wrapped his right elbow in a brown towel and broke the glass. He meant to muffle the noise, and it worked. He reached through the opening, and slowly closed his gloved fingers over the door lever, twisting it. He quietly eased the door open, stepped over the broken glass, and stepped into a large kitchen.
Suddenly, he froze. He saw a small black cat, squatting on the counter under an umbrella of hanging pots and pans, gazing at him through glowing green eyes. It was the only light piercing the faint darkness of the room. He waited briefly, as if expecting the animal to go into attack mode, but then realized that this was no pit bull, it was a harmless Persian kitten.
Sighing his relief, he began making his way from the back door to the doorway leading into the dining room. From the dining room, he turned right and ended up in a well-furnished living room. A sound. He turned and looked down. He saw that the furry animal at his feet had followed him from the kitchen into the living room. He had heard the kitten’s soft purring as it approached.
The animal brushed against his legs. He nudged it away with his foot. The kitten irritated him, but he could not afford to become impatient. It was bad enough that the cat was distracting.
Ken proceeded through the living room and down the hallway until he came to a bedroom on the left. The door was ajar, enabling him to look in. He peered in, barely moving. He saw a small bed that no one occupied. He moved on, coming to a second bedroom, this time on the right. The door was closed. He waited, listening. No sound. He gently turned the knob, leaving the barest opening in the doorway, just enough to see inside. He saw yet another empty bed. When he arrived at the door at the end of the long hall, he knew that Steve slept on the other side. He could even feel his next victim’s energy from beyond the door.
Ken removed the Glock from the holster beneath his jacket. He reached into the back pocket of his black denim jeans and removed the silencer. As he carefully attached the silencer to the gun, a motion from down the hall caught his attention. The black kitten was gazing at him. Ken ignored it, and then cautiously entered the room, placing one foot silently before the other. In the semidarkness, he could make out Steve’s frame beneath a purple comforter. He was covered from his head to the bottom of his legs, leaving only his bare feet exposed. Rather than seeing two feet, however, Ken saw four. There was someone in bed with him. A man, Ken thought. In fact, he was sure of it.
Bands of moonlight filtered through white curtains and reflected the bed; Steve looked like an apparition. The kitten, still following, purred in the doorway, as if to awaken its owner to the danger about to befall him. Steve stirred, and mumbling, slowly pulled the comforter from his face.
“Buddy, I’m trying to get some—” he mumbled, addressing his cat. At the sight of a man standing over his bed, pointing a gun at him, fear leapt into his heart. His breathing became shallow, and his mind raced. He tried desperately to recall – did he forget to lock the back door? Had he left one of the windows cracked? “Who are you? What do you want?” Steve asked, his voice slightly cracking.
“What, you don’t recognize me?” Ken said. The figure lying next to Steve finally awoke, and exposed its bearded face. Ken had seen him before. This man had met Steve outside the Mexican restaurant a year ago. Then, he didn’t have the thick beard.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Shouldn’t you be home with your wife and kids?”
“Who are you? What do you want?” The man was terrified. “You know me? How do you know my wife and children?”
“Let’s just say I followed you a year ago after you left that Mexican restaurant on Spring Street. I saw you pick up your pregnant wife and two boys at the Arts Center train station.”
“Jesus Christ, who are you?” He nearly shouted, stunned by the precise details of his whereabouts last November.”
“His name is Kenneth Morrison. He works for the same company I work for.”
“What the hell is he doing in your house? What have you done to him?” Steve’s lover exclaimed.
“That is a very good question,” Ken cut in. “Why am I here?” He paused, as if expecting an answer. “Oh, what the fuck. You’ll know the answer to that million-dollar question once you’re in Hell.” Ken shot both men, two bullets each; one to the upper torso, one to the lower. He stood at the foot of the bed watching both men die a slow death. Their blood began to darken the comforter that covered them.
When he was satisfied the men were dead, he unscrewed the silencer, put it inside his coat pocket, and placed the Glock back in its holster. He began ransacking the room in order to give police the impression that a burglar had trashed the place while looking for things to steal. He overturned every dresser drawer, emptying T-shirts, socks, and underwear onto the floor. He unplugged the phone that sat on the nightstand next to the bed, where Steve’s wallet lay. He opened the wallet and removed four crisp hundred-dollar bills, then tossed the wallet to the floor and proceeded to the living room. He passed through the dining room and into the kitchen. There, he searched for and found an box of trash bags, yet unopened, on top of the refrigerator.
Back in the living room, Ken placed a DVD player in two Glad bags that he had doubled for extra support. He grabbed the phone from the end table next to a brown leather recliner. For good measure, he stole five packages of meat from the freezer. He looked around, satisfied with himself. He turned and calmly strode out the door he had entered fifteen minutes earlier. He was careful to leave the door standing wide open. Wearing a black ski mask, he hoisted the trash bag full of stolen goods as high as he could, slung it over his right shoulder, and left the premises the same way he had come.
As Ken stepped into the street, he thought he saw a face peering at him through some blinds from the upstairs window of a house across the street. Something or someone had moved. He noted that a picket fence surrounded the house. He looked again at the window; the something-or-someone was gone. His better judgment had persuaded him to put on the ski mask before leaving the crime scene. He was now glad he did. He tossed his bag of goodies into the back seat, and swiftly hopped into the car. He turned the key in the ignition and drove off, turning down East Ponce de Leon Avenue, being careful not to speed. When he got home, he parked the rental car in his garage, next to his Lexus. He hit the garage switch, and the door slowly lowered until it was completely closed.
Instead of removing his shoes and clothes, he crashed on top of his king-sized mattress. He lay very still, allowing the tension to leave his body. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand next to his bed. 2:21 a.m. Sighing, he closed his eyes and didn’t move until the next morning.
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