A Touch of Evil by Vincent Zandri

Author:Vincent Zandri
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, suspense book, mystery books, romance book, steamy book, Vincent zandri book, Vin zandri books, Vince zandri book, Michael Connelly books, Otto penzler books, blake pierce books, Gyllian Flynn books, charlie houston books, action adventire, psychological suspense books
Publisher: Vincent Zandri
Published: 2023-05-02T00:00:00+00:00

PART II

FADE OUT:

35.

The explosion took the back third of his head off, the meat, bone, and blood slapping up against the window glass directly behind him, while scarlet arterial blood gushed out both nostrils, pulsating with the final beats of his taken-entirely-by-surprise heart. His dark eyes went wide, as if he were thinking, How stupid can any one man be? His stocky body relaxed after only a few seconds while his cancerous soul exited his body, and no doubt, made a beeline straight for hell.

Coming from the opposite end of the house, a scream.

Lana.

“For the love of Christ!” she shrieked. “Was that a gunshot?!”

I released my hold on the pistol and his hair, gathered up my crutches, shoving them under my armpits, my entire body trembling but also feeling as though it were levitating. For a brief second I considered wiping my prints from the gun barrel but it was now covered in John’s blood. What good would my wiping anything away do?

“Lana!” I barked, pressing my fingers against the soreness in my neck. “Call 9-1-1. Your husband’s had a bad accident!”

36.

I wasn’t sure why Lana decided to play it like she didn’t know what was coming. Like she hadn’t played a pivotal role in making it all happen. Like she hadn’t asked me to do it!

Maybe she acted innocent of the whole bloody affair because she didn’t want to implicate Susan in any of this. It’s possible she wanted Susan, who possessed full knowledge of the plan, to somehow remain entirely free of guilt. As if simple denial had the potential to erase any shred of truth. As if it could be equated with plausible denial. Whatever the case, as I heard the two women making their way from the back end of the house to the gunroom, I decided that the best idea was to play along.

Entering into the room, Lana caught sight of John’s now smashed pumpkin of a head, and dropped to her knees on the carpeted floor.

“Oh dear God,” she cried, the tears bursting from her blue eyes. “My God, John, how could you do this to me? To us?”

My wife stood behind the grieving woman. Her face had turned pale at the gruesome sight of John, and she seemed to lose her balance so that she was forced to grab hold of the solid wood doorframe to hold herself up. Then, making an abrupt about-face, she took the corner into the adjoining bathroom where she began to vomit into the toilet.

I too began to feel sick to my stomach, like my guts had spilled out of me. Not at the sight of the blood and brain that covered the window behind John’s now blown away head, but at the reality of what I’d just done. I’d not only assisted in plotting a man’s death, I pulled the damn trigger. I knew full well that if, in the end, it turned out the police smelled foul play, I would face lethal injection. So would Lana.

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