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The Eyes of Evil [MultiFormat]
eBook by Eugen M. Bacon
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$0.49 |
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$0.42 |
eBook Category: Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: Sentiment gets lost ... a wilderness of pain replaces it. Detective Sergeant Rachel Blake investigates domestic violence. And wonders how--or why--a heart complicates matters, and makes a woman stay.
eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: Bittersweet Symphony, 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: December 2005
Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [175 KB], eReader (PDB) [23 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [10 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [10 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [72 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [82 KB], hiebook (KML) [80 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [38 KB], iSilo (PDB) [8 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [11 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [38 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [17 KB]
Words: 2737
Reading time: 7-10 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
 
Beneath a topaz sky speckled with an assembly of white stars, a frenetic wind sharp as a stick sweeps sheets of rain across the windscreen of a speeding ambulance. The vehicle loses control on a wet road, climbs onto a curb against the hard shoulder and nearly slams into a tree.
It swings back and shoots along the left lane, swerves right to overtake, then back to the left with sirens wailing. Inside the van, Owen Thomas's head lolls lightly. Streaks of blood paint his arms and face. The front of his shirt is soaked in crimson on a body strapped to a stretcher. The windscreen wiper swishes to and fro, squealing from angry rain and a boisterous wind that roars, in a night dark as an omen. I lean forward, pen poised on a clipboard. "What is your name?" I ask again. Spaced eyes on the stretcher regard me.
"Can you hear me?" I hold up index and middle fingers: "How many fingers are these?" Beside me, PC Mark Downing silently observes my efforts with a face blank as a saucepan. Sirens fade to bleak silence. "How many fingers, goddamit," I lose it. Mark eases me gently away and sound comes blasting back, all too loud at once: the windscreen like a noisy heartbeat, rain gushing on glass and metal, wheels splashing on wet tarmac and sirens screaming like high notes in an aria. "Give it a rest," he says.
But how can I?
* * * *
It began with an emergency call--the neighbour, Old Zack. "I can't sleep," he whined. "Screams from 32 Coolangatta Court. He's at it again."
"What do you mean again?" I asked.
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