EVIL DEEDS

EVIL DEEDS, PART I, Chapters 1 & 2

PART I

1971

CHAPTER one

Liz Danforth stood on the terrace of her rented home in the Athens suburb of Kifissia and watched the edge of the early morning Greek sun peek over the top of the six-foot-high stone wall at the back of the yard. The hills in the distance had already begun to turn bright yellow with the first of the May morning’s sunlight. She closed her eyes and welcomed the sun’s warmth on her face. All in all, not a bad way to start the day, she thought.

The sputtering sound of a motor scooter sounded from the street on the front side of the house, briefly overpowering her husband Bob’s throaty laugh, two-year-old Michael’s high-pitched giggles, and White Dog’s frenzied barking. A hint of a breeze moved a few strands of her hair across her eyes, and she used the back of her hand to push back the blond wisps. She caught Bob looking at her and felt her heart swell. He seemed to revel in her slightest movement or simplest change of expression. How lucky could one woman be?

Liz had been afraid when the Army assigned Bob to Greece. She’d never been outside the United States before. The fact that Greece was ruled by a military junta only made things worse in her mind. But, despite her fear of living in a foreign country, she had acclimated well. And she’d take being with Bob in Greece any day over the year they’d been separated when he was in Vietnam.

“Okay, big guy,” Bob shouted at Michael, “Superman time.”

Liz watched Bob run over to Michael who chased White Dog, a long-haired mutt with a lot of Australian Shepherd blood and who knows what else running through her veins. Bob scooped up the boy and ran around the backyard, while White Dog trailed after them, barking ecstatically.

“Soup Man, Soup Man,” Michael yelled in his husky voice, flying through the air, arms extended, a towel tucked into his collar floating behind like a cape.

Liz chuckled at her two-year-old son’s pronunciation of Superman. Father and son, she thought. Except for the difference in age and size, two peas in a pod. Black-haired, hazel-eyed, high cheekboned peas. Her men.

Bob stopped running and extended his arm straight above his head, balancing Michael in one hand. Liz felt her breath catch.

“Bob, be careful!” she yelled. “You’ll drop him.”

“Not a chance,” he shouted back. She saw a fleeting scornful look on his face and regretted having said anything. But the way he roughhoused with Michael scared her to death. She held her breath, anticipating what would come next, the way the game always ended.

Bob suddenly dropped his arm and Michael fell three feet to where his father caught him against his chest.

Michael giggled. “Again, Daddy,” he yelled. “More! More!”

Bob nuzzled his son and kissed him on the cheek. “Gotta go to work, Mikey. But, I promise we’ll play Superman when I get home.”

Liz saw the disappointed look on her son’s face—an expression midway between pouting and disappointment—when Bob carried him across the yard and up the four steps to the terrace. “No bye-bye, Daddy,” he whined.

Bob again buried his face in his son’s neck and gave him tickling kisses until Michael started laughing. Then he put Michael down and stepped to Liz, barely having to bend his six-foot-two-inch frame to kiss her lips. He put an arm around her back, then lowered his hand to the seat of her jeans. “Not bad for an old married lady,” he said, squeezing a cheek. “You sure make it hard on a working guy. How do you expect me to keep my mind on my job, when the vision of you standing here in tight jeans and a tank top stays with me all day?”