The Demon Pool (20 page)

Kat Connors chanted in front of the black candle. The
chants were free-flowing, not controlled by any conscious thought, as she
focused her mind on tonight’s plan. She would soon solve her problem with Jim
Demore. If tonight’s plan somehow failed, she had prepared a red candle in a
special way, mixing the oil with her own body fluids to create a powerful
aphrodisiac.

D
emore had already
demonstrated a weakness for her flesh. If she failed to remove him as a threat,
then she would burn the red candle. Once seduced and morally compromised, she
could use him to eliminate any future threats to her plans, without getting her
own hands dirty. Demore would become another one of her growing clutch of
love-zombies, a more macho, better-looking, but equally controlled, version of
stupid Bruce, pathetic Robert and crazy Kevin.

She smiled and her chants grew stronger. Hell,
she could have dozens of love-zombies, other stupid men whom she would enchant,
who would do anything for her. An army of love-zombies willing to do whatever
she commanded. It sounded almost silly, but she had the power to make it real.
Her knowledge and abilities had grown and were growing still. Enough even to
impact the very course of human development. This was something completely new.
Something almost incomprehensible. Something God-like. Not only was she able to
read the most advanced texts and white papers on DNA, genetics, and cloning,
she had incorporated advanced mathematics to integrate the stem cell research
that AGT was doing with the problem of aging, cell deterioration, and human
longevity.

All of that reading had led Kat to another
element of genetic science that AGT needed to explore. The idea that the
mortogenic factor, death itself, somehow got passed on through some code locked
within only the male DNA. In 1881, German evolutionary biologist Dr. Weismann
wrote that one day, science would eliminate the mortogenic factor and preserve
the physical constitution necessary for immortality. Apparently, Kat theorized,
it had been Adam, not Eve, who had corrupted the gene pool.
Figures. And it
will be a woman— me — that fixes it. Permanently.

She began to explore the mathematical
probabilities of indefinitely recycling female fetal stem cells in conjunction
with parthenogenesis, virgin conception through human cloning. Something inside
her mind drove her to push the limits of her intellect. Drove her toward the
prospect of a life of unlimited power, intertwined with unlimited longevity,
spiced with unlimited pleasure. An enticing prospect.

Kat’s chanting filled the room, as if the sound
itself had weight and mass. She closed her eyes and imagined a world ruled by a
magick-wielding goddess. Now, that was an enticing prospect.

***

Yes, Baalzaric agreed, it is an
enticing prospect. Although Kat had closed her eyes, Baalzaric could see his
demonic legion coming in and out of Kat’s apartment. His ability to see existed
on two levels. Physically, through the eyes of his host, and metaphysically,
through his spirit eyes. The disembodied demons that floated, twisted, and
scampered above Kat belonged to Baalzaric. They were his helpers. His spiritual
army of influence and corruption.

And they were anxious. Awaiting their next
opportunity to inhabit any man or woman who willingly unlocked the door between
the physical and the astral worlds. The only humans who seemed immune to
possession were those fully owned by the enemy. Genuine, converted followers of
the Nazarene appeared to be impervious to demon possession. However, that never
stopped Lucifer’s minions from attempting to exert their demonic influence over
those whose faith or fidelity faltered — even a little.

Baalzaric kept his demon army well-informed and the
demons knew about Jim Demore. Unless Kat’s current plan eliminated the threat
Demore posed — and her attempts, thus far, had failed — the demons knew that
Baalzaric, through Kat, would ensure that Demore became host to a multitude.
After all, Demore had already demonstrated his weakness for beautiful flesh,
and Demore would not be the first man who traded his soul for sexual delights.
Under Baalzaric’s control, Kat would see to that.

If Kat’s plan failed, he would have her burn the
red candle. She would seduce Demore and make herself his ultimate sex goddess.
She would incite a lust within him beyond the greatest of his adolescent
fantasies. Demore would beg for her and she would give him what he begged for —
and much, much more. Of course, that scenario assumed that Kat would not be
successful with her present plan to neutralize him. Due to human fallibility,
Baalzaric always planned for the worst.

The prospect of Demore’s possession sent the
demons around Baalzaric into a frenzy. But for Baalzaric, the true treasure was
the promise of AGT’s research. The unpleasant truth for demons was that most
humans, sometimes even the most ungodly ones, were not readily open to
possession. In spite of the loose morals of the current age, most of
Baalzaric’s kindred spirits never experienced the joys and pleasures of
physical sex and violence. But now it appeared that Kat had handed him the key
to solving the demon’s two primary problems — having enough humans ready and
available for possession, and preventing the host’s flesh from failing
prematurely due to intense use, natural aging, and demonic defilement.

Many believed that humans received their souls at
conception, at the fusion of egg and sperm. Regardless of the exact timing or
source, Baalzaric knew, unquestionably, that humans had souls.

A demon, given the opportunity, could override
the human soul, even to the point of total control. However, once established,
the body-soul connection could only be completely broken by death. But what
would happen if cloning produced a soulless human being? Baalzaric believed
that without conception, there could be no soul. What if science produced a
fully functional human, capable of sexual desires, thoughts and feelings, minus
the impediment of the soul? Minus any moral imperatives. A spiritually empty,
completely amoral house of pleasure ready for demonic occupancy. It was a
mind-bending concept. And Baalzaric knew that once he took Jim Demore out of
the equation, Kat and AGT were the key to turning the concept into a demonic
reality.

Jim arrived at the Midnight Oasis Gentleman’s Club at
10:55 p.m. He stayed in uniform and drove the Charger rather than showing up in
plain clothes in a rental car.

Various vehicles sprinkled the club’s parking lot.
Midweek business at most strip clubs was rarely more than a handful of
hard-core drinkers and the occasional stray looking for whatever substitute for
a real relationship he could find in twenty-dollar lap dances. It was not the
kind of joint that Jim would normally visit. He was a decent-looking guy and
had never lacked for the attention of attractive women, and he certainly did
not need the baggage — substance abuse, club drama, etcetera — that accompanied
the average topless dancer.

Jim parked the Charger in a space close to the
driveway exit and a couple of rows away from any other cars. A Highway Patrol
vehicle parked by the entrance might cause some passersby to draw the wrong
conclusion.

Many of the clubs were known to be accommodating
toward off-duty police officers. They just flashed their “gold card” —
officer’s badge — to the doorman and it was VIP treatment all the way.
Controlling their harems of dancers, their drunken customers, and their
frequent associations with organized crime kept them busy enough. Smart club
owners treated cops like royalty as long as they were willing to be just
another customer.

The club’s doorman sat outside on a wood stool
next to the entrance. M
ö
tley Cr
ü
e blasted through the open front door,
pumping alcohol, cigarette smoke, and perfume-laden air out with it. “Girls,
Girls, Girls” celebrating raunchy, glam rock lust.

As Jim approached the entrance, the doorman stood
blocking it. He was two to three inches taller than Jim and must have weighed
close to three hundred pounds. Jim smiled while he worked on a takedown
strategy. Fortunately, it remained a mental drill.

“Good evening, officer,” the doorman said.

His deep voice reasonably friendly and supremely
confident. His face displayed a well-practiced semblance of a sincere smile.

“Good evening,” Jim said, returning the big man’s
smile as the last strains of the song faded out.

“I was told to ask for Kat.”

A new song tore through the club. Even outside,
the doorman had to raise his voice.

“I hope she’s not in trouble.” The doorman’s
smile hardly moved as he spoke. “She’s one of the few girls here who has a real
job. She could quit this dump anytime she wanted.”

Jim took his notebook from his shirt pocket. He
made a notation to check on Kat’s other job. The doorman winced as if realizing
he’d let his mouth run more than he should have. Jim pulled a copy of the
Viper’s photo from his shirt pocket.

“Ever see this car here.”

The doorman looked at the photo. His expression
did not change after he glanced at the Viper, but Jim had seen a momentary
flash of what may have been recognition in the doorman’s eyes.

“We don’t see cars like that here,” the doorman
said. “Try that Venus place over on Dale Mabry Boulevard. They go total nude
over there and get their share of high rollers. We get mostly local guys.
Businessmen, a few military types, and some red necks. Ain’t no rich boy cars
parked here.”

“No, I guess not,” Jim replied.

Jim put the notebook and photo back in his
pocket. Despite the doorman’s seeming sincerity, Jim believed he was lying.
Before the conversation went any further, Kat appeared at the door.

“Good evening, Trooper Demore.”

She looked fresh from a South Beach beauty
contest.

“Mikey, go ahead and let Trooper Demore in.”

“All right, Kat.”

Mikey, the giant doorman, stepped aside, once
again smiling his frozen smile.

“Go right ahead, Trooper Demore. Looks like you
done hit the lottery tonight. It ain’t often that someone gets in as Kat’s
special guest. Matter of fact, I can’t remember it ever happening.”

Jim nodded at Mikey and stepped into the club.
Kat took his hand and led him to the empty bar. Jim knew he should pull his
hand back, but Kat’s touch grabbed him like a live electric wire.

The few customers in the club sat close to the
main stage. A buxom redhead in a turquoise babydoll held their attention. Jim
sat on a stool at the bar. A couple of customers had followed his entrance with
nervous glances. Alcohol, the Highway Patrol, and the desire to drive one’s car
home were not exactly a winning combination for a fun night out. Nonetheless,
their attention quickly returned to the main stage when the redhead pulled down
her top. Jim could not resist a quick glance.

“She gets a lot of attention, but she doesn’t
really like men,” Kat told him.

Jim’s face heated up as he focused his attention
on Kat.

“So, has York ever let you drive the Viper?” Jim
asked, not waiting for her to reveal why she had asked him to the club. He
watched her eyes.

“He took me for a ride in it once or twice. It’s
a nice car,” Kat said. Her eyes gave him no clues.

“He ever bring it here?”

A new song began playing. Slower, softer. The
redhead’s movements matched the music. Slower, softer.

“Yes, he did. Once. Right after he first got it.
I think he wanted to impress me. Men are always trying to impress me.”

She said it with the simple truthfulness of a
child telling her mother “the sky is blue” on a clear, sunny day. Her eyes
stayed locked on Jim.
Something about her eyes. As if I’m looking at two
different people staring back from a single set of eyes.

A creepy, uncomfortable effect.

“Would you like a drink or something?” Kat asked.

She broke eye contact and looked past Jim to the
bartender.

“Tony,” she said, her voice barely carrying over
the music. A new song boomed from the speakers.

“The girl’s so dope, she makes me high!”

The lead singer belted the words out. The redhead
on stage displayed a wicked smile that acknowledged her oneness with the song.

“I could love her all night if she’d let me
inside.”

She returned to a high-energy bump and grind.

“Get the officer something to drink. Something
diet. No alcohol,” Kat ordered.

Kat turned back to Jim, reestablishing eye
contact. The song’s chorus rolled over them.

“She’s a spinnin’ wheel on a midnight ride.”

Jim felt the heat of her stare as if he had
become some laboratory specimen; an oddity to be examined and evaluated. As a
diversion, he pulled out his wallet, breaking eye contact again, and put a
five-dollar bill on the bar. Tony tossed a coaster down in front of Jim and
placed a glass of diet cola on it. He walked away without picking up the cash.
Jim lifted the glass and held it for a moment, swirling the ice cubes.

“What would you like, Trooper Demore?” Kat asked.
She used his correct title, Trooper, not Officer. “We have a lot to offer
here.”

Jim did not miss the double meaning. Kat watched
the dancer for a moment and then looked back at him. A rock ballad began with a
slower, softer melody. The redhead danced in a sensuous, syncopated rhythm
choreographed to the music and to the singer’s mournful voice.

“I want to feel your fire, want to feel the
heat
.”

The redhead arched her back until her shoulders
touched the floor. She moved her hips up and down to the music.

“Burning inside me
.
Burning inside me
.”

“Give me a pink daiquiri, Tony.” Kat ordered
without taking her eyes off Jim.

“I thought you had some information for me,” Jim
said, impatience creeping into his voice.

Tony returned with Kat’s drink. She took it from
him and raised it toward Jim.

“I have something for you,” Kat replied and
clinked her glass against his, “but first, it’s my turn to dance.”

She killed half the daiquiri in one pull and put
the glass on the bar. The redhead’s last song faded out and she grabbed her
discarded babydoll and headed off the stage.

Jim looked at his diet cola and took a long pull
himself. His throat felt like it did when he was over in the big sandbox, southwest
of Baghdad, right before crossing the line of departure — the imaginary line on
the ground where at any moment the shit could hit the fan.

“I can’t be here much longer,” Jim said, looking
at his watch.

Kat smiled warmly, but her eyes inspected him
like he was some rare specimen.

“Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

Jim watched Kat stroll toward the stage and mount
the platform. Her perfect, athletic body made the redhead look like a cow. The
music started and Kat turned, strutting toward the pole at the center of the
stage. The driving beat of Love/Hate’s
Spinning Wheel
slapped the sour
air. The lead singer’s raspy, hard rock vocals began as she reached the pole.

Kat gyrated to the music. The song’s lyrics
providing a perfect complement to Kat’s dance. She took off her shirt, took off
her pants. The lighting in the club dimmed, got brighter, and dimmed again.

Jim’s throat had dried out like ancient
parchment. He took another long drink from the cola before he realized his
mistake. He tried to put the glass on the bar, but it fell from his fingers,
crashing to the floor. The song continued — a stripper’s anthem — the lead
singer asking to see her nakedness. To see all.

Jim stared at Kat as she danced. He felt
paralyzed, sitting perfectly still, eyes wide open, vaguely aware of the music.
For a moment, he thought he had nodded off. Kat had stripped off her bra — her wardrobe
now nothing more than a pink, micro teardrop G-string. The guys at the stage
were holding up paper bills.

The scene changed.

The song continued.

The scene changed again.

Kat sat in front of him, now dressed.

Then the lights went out.