A Cold, Fine Evil Read online

  A COLD, FINE EVIL

  by

  A.C. ALEXANDER

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright Ó 2016 by A.C. Alexander

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  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 publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-68299-206-7

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kelly Martin

  Editor: Dave Field

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Other Books by Author

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  About the Author

  Torrid

  Other Books by Author Available at Torrid Books:

  www.torridbooks.com

  w/a Emma Wildes

  The Switch

  Hot Sahara Wind

  w/a Annabel Wolfe

  Pirates of London Series

  Satan’s Slave

  Between a Rake and a Hard Place

  The Devil’s Lagoon

  Dedication

  To Elissa, in friendship

  Chapter 1

  The year I died I saw the house for the last time.

  Memories flooded back, confused and blurred, like a time-worn lithograph. Surely I should feel something. One would certainly think so. Revulsion maybe, or fear, or even a sort of empty triumph. In the end, I’d won, right?

  But there was just…nothing.

  No emotion at all.

  The time I lived there was like part of a forgotten novel I’d read once but not paid enough attention to the story. The characters were in my mind, yet I wasn’t certain of their roles in the events that unfolded. The shadowy figures floated around, yet their evasive history was lost and meaningless.

  I wondered why I didn’t care more.

  So I just stood there looking at the wide gabled porch, the pitched angles of the roof, and the shining windows.

  It looked back at me.

  Three weeks later, everything was over.

  The lake was like cold ebony glass.

  Not a breeze. Not even a ripple on the surface.

  Brilliant scarlet leaves from a maple fading into winter floated on the surface like drops of blood, and the woods crowded the shore, dark, secret and impenetrable.

  Watching.

  It was eerily quiet.

  The dark, deep water hid its secrets, lethal and silent.

  Or, Jon Palmer thought with an inner sense of ironic amusement as he stood by the wide windows of the cabin overlooking the water, drinking his coffee, it was simply a nice fall day. A little on the crisp side, but this was Minnesota after all, and often enough they’d already had snow. If it was lonely now, he could only imagine what it would be like when he was locked inside by drifts of snow and impassable roads.

  The coffee was Colombian; rich and dark. One of the things he’d brought was the expensive coffee maker Connie had insisted they buy but for some reason hadn’t taken with her when she’d left him. He stood there sipping from his cup, watching a faint hint of mist hover over the lake.

  He needed to unpack but was putting it off.

  Not that he’d really brought much with him. Clothes, his computer and printer, a few framed photographs, golf clubs he’d probably never use, a fishing pole and some tackle, his photography equipment, of course… His books, yes, boxes of them, just his favorites; the ones he couldn’t live without. The rest he’d given to the local bookshop, a donation in the spirit of purging from his life what wasn’t necessary. He’d sold much of what he owned—except that damned coffee maker—given away almost all the rest, and irrationally perhaps, didn’t miss any of it.

  Thou shalt not covet worldly goods.

  Was that even in the Bible? He wasn’t sure. It sounded like something that should be, and he was guilty of coveting, but not as guilty as other people he knew. What he had left of worldly possessions was stacked in boxes on the plain plank wooden floor of the spare bedroom and for all he knew he wouldn’t even open half of them.

  That thought was banished. It was painful to think about his former life—and so he’d vowed to do his best to dismiss it from his mind when it was possible, and accept it wasn’t possible all the time.

  At thirty-eight, it was a little difficult to learn new life lessons, but he was trying.

  He preferred to climb into the skin of this stranger he’d become than exist as the man he used to be. It was new—and yet familiar, like getting out of bed after a long illness—and he would adjust.

  The drive into town was only about twenty minutes but seemed longer, the road winding through stands of white pine, oak, and birches with leaves that whispered and fluttered gold in the breeze. The county highway was bordered by a picturesque small stream running over smooth rocks and he occasionally passed a group of mailboxes by a dirt road, with signs painted with family names, a leftover affectation of when people from the twin cities bought summer lake places back in the forties and fifties. The agent who’d leased him the cabin had told him stoically that he’d have to rent a box and pick up his mail in town. There was no rural mail delivery on the nearby lakes in the winter when there were no permanent residents.

  Jon had no intention of renting a post office box. Anything he needed to do he could do from his phone, like banking and answering email. Otherwise, being cut off from the world as much as possible was the point of it all.

  Black Lake was only several thousand people; five churches, a grocery store, a locker for processing deer during hunting season, three gas stations, and a consolidated school for the rural kids and the town kids together. There was a bus coming down the street now and he wondered just how late he’d slept. It must be mid-afternoon. Days and nights had blended together.

  Piles of fallen leaves lifted in swirls like errant ghosts from the gutter as the cumbersome vehicle passed him by.

  With a physical pang he missed his children.

  For a single moment it clawed at him like a ferocious entity he couldn’t fight, but then he calmed it and managed to simply pull into the gas station. He put the BMW in park, and got out.

  Sweating suddenly, but okay. Okay.

  Jon went to the pump, and then discovered if he
wasn’t using a credit card he had to go in and pay ahead. Modern society was interesting, he decided, glad the panic attack was ebbing. Cash should be more convenient, but it wasn’t.

  The clerk was obviously local for she greeted him with a nice smile and a pronounced northern accent, accepted his money cheerfully but eyed his expensive leather jacket with slightly lifted brows. True enough, tourist season was over and hunting season hadn’t yet begun, and he supposed he didn’t really look like a fishing fanatic either. He asked as pleasantly as possible, “Would you mind telling me if there’s a liquor store anywhere around here?”

  She answered readily with friendliness. It was, after all, a small town. “There are plenty of taverns if you want to go in and sit down, but for package there’s only two. Main Street Spirits is about two blocks down, just keep going north. Arnie’s Grocery sells some stuff, but the wine selection is mostly of the box variety.”

  So he must look like a wine sort of individual. He definitely should have just worn jeans instead of the tailored khakis. “I was thinking more along the lines of decent scotch.”

  “Then Main Street is your only option.” Small dimples appeared in her full cheeks. “I won’t lie, they’ll be glad to see you there. It’s kind of expensive.”

  “If you want to play, you’ve got to pay.” He grinned, and shrugged. “I’ll contribute money to the local economy.”

  After he pumped his gas, he drove down the street, spotted the liquor store, and purchased half a case—the scotch selection wasn’t great, not that he was really picky these days—and went to the grocery store. Appetite was kind of a problem currently, so that made shopping a chore, but even in his current state he knew he had to eat. Deli ham, cheese, and bread, a couple of steaks, a few potatoes, some packaged salad, and he’d live for a few more days.

  He was fairly sure he wanted to do that, and that was progress.

  There was one more crucial stop.

  To cruise by the first time was the act of a coward, but he didn’t care. The high school hadn’t changed—he hadn’t expected it would. It was football season and the team was out there practicing, all shoulder pads and cut off shirts, young men oblivious to the cool temperatures, their aggressive stances familiar and yet foreign, since he hadn’t done it in a long time. He pulled up to the curb and watched for a while.

  No one who knew him from college or back in Chicago would ever look for him in Black Lake. Even with his wife, he’d always been vague about his hometown, jokingly calling it Nowhere, Minnesota. Was that why he’d come back? He wasn’t sure, but then again, he wasn’t certain about anything anymore.

  * * * *

  It was him.

  Alicia Hahn hadn’t been paying much attention when he’d walked through the door of the liquor store—just another customer. But when he’d handed over the money for his purchase he’d flashed a very well-remembered, mesmerizing smile. It wasn’t meant personally, just out of habit, but she knew it just the same.

  Jon Palmer. In the flesh. In an instant she’d been sure, like being hit with a baseball bat, her hand tightening on the bills as she counted his change, but at least he didn’t seem to register her reaction. Yes, he was older now, but weren’t they all.

  Same wavy chestnut hair, not a fleck of gray, lean athletic build, faint creases now by his ice blue eyes, but unfairly, it made him even better-looking. Good cheekbones, straight nose, and a clean jawline…wide shoulders and a tell-tale expensive jacket that hadn’t been bought within a hundred miles of Black Lake rounded it all out.

  Him. For sure.

  She, on the other hand, was considerably different. At least fifteen pounds overweight now, her hair color was not due to genetics, and he hadn’t recognized her at once, which wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t like he noticed her so much while they were growing up either. She’d been part of the wallpaper, insignificant and ignored, and for the most part, that hadn’t rankled too much. It wasn’t like she’d expected more.

  Last she knew, he lived in Chicago, had the wife and two-point something kids going and ran a multi-million dollar company. It seemed strange he was in Black Lake, especially when there really didn’t seem to be anything left here for him. His mother had died when he was still in high school, and his father had passed away years before that. He’d never liked his step-father—that was no secret, and he certainly wasn’t around any longer.

  “Do I know you?” He’d asked politely enough with a half-apologetic smile, leaning on the glass counter, but only a little, keeping his distance, but trying to be friendly at least.

  No wedding ring on his left hand.

  For a brief moment she’d thought about lying, but changed her mind. “We went to school together. Jon, right?”

  “Yeah, right. Obviously your memory is better than mine.” He wasn’t flirting, far from it, but at least seemed interested in her answer.

  She wrapped each bottle carefully in a brown paper bag. “I’m used to seeing the same faces day after day when it isn’t tourist season. Alicia. It was Meyer. Hahn now.”

  Recognition did dawn. It was there in the azure depths of his eyes. “I remember. How are you?”

  “Fine.” It was a lie. She wasn’t fine, unless that was defined by working for a second rate liquor store and having virtually no social life except getting hit on by every drunk who stumbled through the door. Life was adequate at best. “I thought about moving to the Twins for a while but never did. Small town girl, I guess. What brings you back?” She pushed the box across the counter.

  “I needed a little space. Black Lake has a lot of that.”

  “That it does,” she agreed. There was a temptation to ask if he was having a party, but also a sense maybe the booze was all for him. Still, he didn’t look like a hard drinker. She’d been surprised before, but usually she could tell.

  “It hasn’t changed much around here.”

  “No.” Hard to argue that one, though she wished she could come up with something more brilliant. She did add, “Nice to see you.”

  “You, too.”

  Still has a nice ass, she’d thought when he’d walked out of the store. A world-class quarterback of the team ass. The good looks aside, he’d also been valedictorian and recruited by several top academic institutions for football because he’d had the whole package of both brains and athletic talent. He’d chosen Notre Dame, was injured the first season, and then transferred to the University of Minnesota, married—no doubt someone gorgeous—and supposedly lived happily ever after, so what was he doing back?

  Divorce? Could be. He’d been alone when he came in and the odds were against him that the marriage would last, or at least only fifty-percent as per the national average. She was a casualty of the same poll. Her ex was somewhere in Nebraska now, on his third wife.

  The only light—besides the artificial illumination from several pool lights hung around that the owner thought was high-end decorating—was through the front door. The brilliant hue of the sky was striking. This time of year was her favorite. In the spring the lingering touch of winter was still there, the up and down rollercoaster tiring. Summer could be just as bad; humid nights and sticky days making it miserable outside. Winter in Minnesota, was, well, winter in Minnesota. It consisted of piles of snow, below zero temps, and the threat of frostbite if a person wasn’t paying attention. Usually most people did, but now and then someone slipped up and lost a digit or two.

  But fall was pretty nice.

  Like today. She got off at four. Maybe later she’d go out in the canoe and paddle around the lake near her parent’s house. On beautiful evenings she usually did, and it was quiet now without all the summer people up.

  Alicia went back to answer the buzzer on the back door and found the beer truck had a delivery, which made her grumble because she had to help unload it and then put the order in the coolers. Those damn fifteen pounds, she reminded herself, sweating an hour later. Unloading the truck was better exercise than walking on an elliptical machine an
d she needed to get into shape. She hefted some Bud Light onto a top shelf. Maybe her ass was not as small as she wanted, but her arms sure were toned. When it came to truck day, she was as good as any of the male employees.

  “Want to go get some dinner? I have no idea where to go and the weather is supposed to get dicey in a few hours.” The driver was new, had been more helpful than most, and he was maybe a little older than she was, but not bad-looking and seemed like a nice guy. Plaid shirt, probably chewed some tobacco, but polite and nice. Any other day, she might even have accepted. It was never fun to go out to eat alone, so she usually flipped a burger on the stove, rationalized that the salad she had with it instead of fries made it okay, and watched television until she fell asleep on the couch. There were times she wondered why she even had a bedroom. Not for sex, that was undeniable. How long had it been?

  Why the hell is Jon Palmer back in town?

  The answer to that question interested her. He interested her.

  He had back when they were growing up in the same backwater town, and he certainly did now. That facile smile, the easy way he moved, the dangerous aura; it wasn’t an act. The guy was complicated and always had been.

  Jon Palmer was the only person she’d ever known who had killed someone and gotten away with it.

  And she was the only witness to the crime.

  She told the driver with an insincere smile of apology, “No thanks, I have plans.”

  Chapter 2

  I wished I could deny that I hoped he would one day return.

  There are all types of people in this world. That just goes without saying. Some breeze through without anyone ever noticing anything besides their simple existence, taking for granted they will wake up safe in the morning, that the darkness will never touch them, that evil is just terminology used for shock effect.

  I can tell you it is not.