April Evil: A Novel

April Evil: A Novel

April Evil: A Novel

April Evil: A Novel


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Overview

April Evil, one of many classic novels from crime writer John D. MacDonald, the beloved author of Cape Fear and the Travis McGee series, is now available as an eBook.
 
Springtime in Florida. The vacation season is over. It’s a hot day . . . too hot for April. The sun beats relentlessly down on the sidewalks. Most of the tourists have gone back north, and the residents of Flamingo have the town pretty much to themselves. They can play golf on empty courses, relax on pristine beaches. Kids can play hide-and-seek in the tall grass around the vacant winter houses. The real estate men, the car salesmen, and the police can all relax. But at 11:30 this morning, a man and a woman in a dusty gray Buick with Illinois plates drive into town. And they’re about to hit like a hurricane. The evil days have begun.
 
Features a new Introduction by Dean Koontz
 
Praise for John D. MacDonald
 
The great entertainer of our age, and a mesmerizing storyteller.”—Stephen King
 
“My favorite novelist of all time.”—Dean Koontz
 
“To diggers a thousand years from now, the works of John D. MacDonald would be a treasure on the order of the tomb of Tutankhamen.”—Kurt Vonnegut
 
“A master storyteller, a masterful suspense writer . . . John D. MacDonald is a shining example for all of us in the field. Talk about the best.”—Mary Higgins Clark

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780307827005
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 06/11/2013
Sold by: Random House
Format: eBook
Pages: 192
Sales rank: 154,244
File size: 2 MB

About the Author

About The Author
John D. MacDonald was an American novelist and short-story writer. His works include the Travis McGee series and the novel The Executioners, which was adapted into the film Cape Fear. In 1962 MacDonald was named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America; in 1980, he won a National Book Award. In print he delighted in smashing the bad guys, deflating the pompous, and exposing the venal. In life, he was a truly empathetic man; his friends, family, and colleagues found him to be loyal, generous, and practical. In business, he was fastidiously ethical. About being a writer, he once expressed with gleeful astonishment, “They pay me to do this! They don’t realize, I would pay them.” He spent the later part of his life in Florida with his wife and son. He died in 1986.

Date of Birth:

July 24, 1916

Date of Death:

December 28, 1986

Place of Birth:

Sharon, PA

Place of Death:

Milwaukee, WI

Education:

Syracuse University 1938; M.B. A. Harvard University, 1939

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE
 
The couple arrived in Flamingo, a town of twelve thousand population on Florida’s west coast, at about eleven-thirty on the morning of the eleventh of April. They arrived in a gray Buick sedan with Illinois plates. The big car was dirty after the long trip. Racked clothing hung in the back.
 
The gray Buick cruised the main shopping section on Bay Avenue for a few minutes and then pulled into a drive-in restaurant on the west end of Bay Avenue near the approach to the causeway and bridge that led to Flamingo Key.
 
It was a hot day, too hot to eat in the car. There was no one in the other cars. The other customers were all inside the restaurant. A waitress in a green cotton uniform stood in the angular patch of shade made by the building itself, her back against the pink wall, and watched the couple as they got out of the gray car. She smoked a cigarette and watched them and wondered idly about them.
 
The man was tall. He was about thirty years old. He had the look of someone still recovering from a serious illness. He slid carefully out from behind the wheel and stood by the car, his posture bad, shoulders thrust forward. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open, gray pants that were baggy at the knees. The shirt and trousers looked as though they had been made for a larger man. The trousers were gathered at the belt line and hung slack in the back.
 
He stood blinking in the bright sunshine, his shadow black against the blue-black of the asphalt. His color was not good and the glossy black of his hair seemed the most alive thing about him. He stood and looked toward the causeway. He rubbed his left arm and elbow gingerly. It was pink from the sun, from resting on the sill of the car window as he drove.
 
The woman was still in the car, putting on lipstick. The man turned and looked up Bay Avenue toward the shopping section and then turned farther and looked at the waitress. There were deep lines in his cheeks. There were dark patches under hot dark eyes. His nose was long, thin at the bridge, wide at the nostrils. He looked at the waitress with a complete lack of expression. That is not something often seen. The dead wear no expression. Neither do the victims of dementia praecox when in catatonic state. Something behind the face looked out of the dark eyes at her, and the face told her nothing. The waitress felt oddly uncomfortable. She was a handsome husky girl, accustomed to stares, but not of that sort. She looked away.
 
The man spoke in a low impatient voice to the woman in the car. She got out quickly. She was a tall girl of about twenty-five, as tall as the man in her high heels. She wore a sheer white blouse. Her tan linen skirt was badly wrinkled. She smoothed it across her hips with the back of her hand. Her blonde hair was cropped short, and the waitress decided it was not becoming to her. It made the girl’s face look too large, too heavy. The girl had the wide cheekbones, the short upper lip, the wide-set blue eyes, the heaviness of mouth that have become a stereotype of sensual beauty. Her tall figure was good, but slightly heavy. There was a look of softness about it. Her legs were very white. The girl’s face was passive, with a hint of almost bovine endurance. She walked in an oddly constricted way. It was a walk in which there was body-consciousness and a flavor of humility. She walked as though she half expected a sudden blow, and yet would not mind too much if it came.
 
The man locked the car quickly and passed the girl on the way to the door and held it open for her. The waitress snapped her cigarette out onto the asphalt. She thought that the couple had not had a very good trip. It looked as though the girl had gotten the wrong man, and that was too bad. But a lot of us get the wrong ones. And it’s too late then and not much you can do about it. There are more wrong ones than right ones.
 
The waitress went in the side door of the restaurant. The man had taken a paper from the rack by the door. They had taken a table for two. The man read the morning Flamingo Record. The waitress was glad it was not her table. The girl sat quite still and looked beyond the man, out the big side window toward the blue water of the bay and the white houses on the key beyond the bay. At intervals she lifted a cigarette slowly to her mouth, and as slowly returned it to hold it over the chipped glass ashtray on the formica table.
 
By two o’clock, using the name Mr. and Mrs. John Wheeler, the couple had rented the Mather house on the bay shore three miles south of the center of town. Hedges, the realtor, had tried to interest them in a house on the key, but they had not wanted to be on the key. The Mather house was long, low—a three-bedroom two-bath cypress house with a terrace that faced the bay, a new dock but no boat. The nearest house north of it was over two hundred feet away, and almost entirely screened by dense plantings. The vacant land south of the house was thickly overgrown with palmetto and cabbage palm and weeds.
 
The Mather house had a curving shell drive, live oaks heavy with Spanish moss, some delicate punk trees, a few pepper trees, a clump of coconut palm. There was a phone in the house on temporary disconnect, and Hedges promised to have it hooked up that same day. The man had paid in cash, seven hundred and seventy-two dollars and fifty cents. This included the three per cent state tax. It covered the rental up to May fifteenth.
 
After the transaction was complete, Bud Hedges, not a very imaginative or sensitive man, wondered why he should have strange fancies about the couple. They had not responded to any of his eager listing of the delights of a vacation in Flamingo. Even the dusty gray car had seemed blunt and sullen. He wondered why he had taken the precaution of jotting down the number from the Illinois plates. He shrugged off his strange feelings. The money was in hand. Mrs. Mather would be pleased. He had made thirty-seven-fifty for an hour of work during the month when the tourist season was ending. And the Wheelers had gotten what they wanted, a house with a maximum of privacy. He had not expected them to pay that much freight. The man’s shoes had been black, cheap, cracked across the instep. Hedges always looked at their shoes. It was a better index than automobiles. You couldn’t buy shoes on time.
 
They looked the house over more carefully after Hedges had gone. They carried the luggage in. The man wandered around the grounds while the girl unpacked. He went down and stood on the dock. Mullet jumped in the bay. A man in a yellow boat with a very quiet outboard motor trolled in a wide circle. A gray cabin cruiser went south by the channel markers. He could see the narrow pass between Flamingo Key and Sand Key, see the deeper blue of the waters of the Gulf of Mexico beyond the pass.
 
The girl came out on the front terrace and called to him. “It’s all unpacked. We got to get some stuff.”
 
He walked up to the terrace. “Like what?”
 
“You know. Staples. Bread and butter and eggs and cans and stuff.”
 
“Can you cook?”
 
“I can cook some. You don’t want to go out much, do you?”
 
“No. I don’t want to go out much.”
 
“I fixed the trays and turned the ’frig on high. There ought to be ice pretty quick.”
 
“Little homemaker.”
 
“Well … hell.”
 
“Pick up a couple bottles too. Here.”
 
She took the money. He heard the car leave a few minutes later. He paced through the empty house. He turned on a radio in the big kitchen. He found soap operas, hill-billies and Havana stations. He turned it off, drank a glass of water, frowned at the sulphur taste. He tried the phone but it wasn’t hooked up yet. He went in and tested the beds. They felt all right. He took a shower. After the shower he dressed in the cotton slacks and aqua sports shirt he had picked up in that store in Georgia. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror as he combed his black glossy hair.
 
“Tourist,” he whispered. And he grinned.
 
She drove in a few minutes later. He went out and carried half the stuff back in.
 
“Buy them out, baby?”
 
“It isn’t as much as it looks like. It won’t last long. Here’s the bottles.”
 
The ice was ready. He made himself a drink, and leaned against the sink and watched her putting the groceries away. She looked serious and intent and important.
 
“A new side to your character, baby,” he said.
 
She straightened up and looked around. “It’s a nice kitchen, Harry.”
 
“It ought to be a nice kitchen. It ought to have a gold stove yet. It ought to have a floor show. Make with a floor show.”
 
She gave him a sidelong look, and broke into a husky fragment of a chorus routine, ending with grind and bump. He put his glass down and clapped his hands solemnly three times.
 
“I’m out of practice,” she said. She looked at him and then at her arms and said, “We ought to get some tan.”
 
“You get some tan. This sunshine routine doesn’t grab me.”
 
“You’d look more like the other people around here.”
 
“You wouldn’t be trying to tell me my business.”
 
“Don’t get like that, Harry.”
 
“Stick to cooking, Sal.”
 
“Okay. Okay.”
 
He left the kitchen and went to the phone again. He dialed zero. When the operator answered he hung up. He went to the bedroom and got the slip of paper from the top of the bureau and went back to the phone. He dialed the number.
 
“Sandwind Motel.”
 
“Have you got a Robert Watson registered?”
 
“Yes sir, we have.”
 
“I want to talk to him.”
 
“I think he’s on the beach right now.”
 
“Can’t you get him?”
 
“It might take some time. Why don’t you give me your name and number and I can have him call you back.”
 
“Okay. Tell him to call 9-3931.” He hung up. He went out to the kitchen and made a fresh drink. Sal wouldn’t look at him.
 
“For Christ sake don’t sulk.”
 
“Well, it’s just that …”
 
“When Ace gets here keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk. Get out of the way and leave us alone.”
 
“Sure, Harry.”
 
“You got the stuff put away?”
 
“Yes.”
 
He slapped the seat of her wrinkled skirt. “Go get the happy sunshine, kid. Go brown yourself.”
It was fifteen minutes before the phone rang.

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