The Demon Pool (27 page)

Bruce threaded the chain through the gate and the gate
post. He needed to finish whatever Kat had for him to do and get the hell away
from the estate, and from Kat’s little sycophant freak.  As he snapped the lock
shut, a big Dodge truck turned off the highway and roared up to the gate. A
sixty-something Hispanic man stared at him through the truck’s windshield.

The man killed the engine and got out of the
truck. Determination flashed laser-like from the man’s brown eyes. Something
else resided there too. Bruce worked every day around military personnel. He
knew the look of someone who had taken human life. The Hispanic man had that
look, but Bruce also saw that he was empty-handed. The locked gate provided
Bruce a modicum of safety. He puffed himself up and put on his best
I’m-in-charge-here face.

“This is federal property, sir. The public is not
allowed in here.”

“My name is Pedro de la Garza.”

Pedro’s determined expression did not change or
soften as he spoke. Pedro pointed at the placard on the pillars that had
supported the original gate.

“And I know.”

Pedro’s declaration hung in the humid air. Bruce’s
eyes started blinking.
De la Garza? Shit.

“I know,” Pedro continued, “that it was your car
that killed those people. The people in the Corvette. I saw your car. I saw the
crash.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking
about,” Bruce replied, almost shouting, “You have to leave. You can’t be here!”

Little beads of sweat formed on Bruce’s forehead.
His puffed-up air of authority began to deflate.
Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
Don’t panic
.

“You are wrong, señior,” Pedro said. “I know. And
I know something else.”

“You don’t know shit. Get out of here before I
call the police.” Bruce’s hand came up with his cell phone. “I’m not kidding. I
will have you arrested.”

“I know where you got the money, señior. I know
how a government man could buy such a nice car. I know, and you know, and soon,
the man
will know,” Pedro threatened.

Bruce heard someone speak.
“Think!”
the
voice told him
.

De la Garza did not say it. Bruce looked around.
No sign of Kevin.

He knows too much. Get him inside.

Voices, or thoughts?

The other one will take care of him.

Do it now.

Bruce wasn’t sure if he had heard something, or
if stress and panic had pushed his mind to the breaking point. In reality, he
decided, it didn’t matter. He needed to act. Now. Bruce put his cell phone away
and pulled the gate key from his pocket. He tried to smile.

“Come in. We can talk about it.”

“Yes, we will talk, but not here. Not tonight.”

Pedro backed up to the door of his truck and
opened it. His eyes looked beyond Bruce. Bruce turned and saw Kevin near the back
of the house. Pedro took a matchbook out of his pocket and tossed it through
the framework of the gate. Bruce caught it.

“Call me there. Tomorrow. Six p.m. If you do not
call, I know a Highway Patrol officer who would like to know what I know.”

Pedro got into his truck and started the engine.
He backed the truck out onto the highway. Kevin appeared next to Bruce. The
low-slung gun belt made him look like some demonic, gun-toting elf from a
low-budget horror movie.

Bruce reopened the gate, and he and demon-elf  Kevin
trotted toward Pedro’s truck. Something bright and metallic flashed in the
elf’s hand. The gun. The big truck’s tires squealed as it launched down the
road in an explosion of burning rubber and the roar of its big Hemi engine.

***

Kevin stopped at the road’s edge.
Bruce stood next to him. Kevin aimed the raised pistol at the retreating truck
and Bruce slapped his arm down. Kevin stepped back and pointed the weapon at
Bruce.

“What the hell did you do that for, Clark?”

Kevin watched Bruce go into full blink mode.
Bruce looked down at the book of matches in his hand.

“It’s Bruce, not Clark,” Bruce said as he put the
matchbook in his pocket. “Put the gun away. She won’t like it if we screw this
up.”

Kevin hesitated. He slowly lowered the weapon.
He’s
right. She won’t like it if we screw this up. She thinks I already screwed
things up once. You’re lucky, Clark.

“Okay, Brucie. Whatever you say.”

Kevin put the gun back in its holster. A truce.
For
the moment, asshole.

He turned his back on Bruce, mumbling as he
walked away.

“We got shit to do, Clark. Let’s go.”

***

Bruce followed Kevin without
comment.
Inside his head, he heard voices chattering. This time he was
sure they were not his own thoughts, but actual voices. A dozen individual
entities yammered inside his skull, mocking him. Amongst the throng, Bruce’s
own thoughts carried little clout. His mind screamed out at them.
Shut up.
Shut up. Shut up
.
Whoever you are, shut up! You’re not helping.

A tiny moment of silence passed, and then a single
voice whispered.

“Help her.”

More voices joined in.

“
Help her.”

“Help her.”

“
Help her.”

Bruce’s resolve softened as they hammered away.
He pressed his palms against his temples. Maybe if he pressed hard enough he
could shut them up.

“Help her.”

“Help her.”

“Help her, and we will help you.”

“Help her,” Bruce mumbled to himself. “Help her
and she will help me. That’s the plan.”

Bruce followed Kevin to the van at the back of
the house, and Kevin opened the van’s back doors.

“Give me a hand here, Clark.”

Bruce started to say something about his name
when Kevin gave him another “screw you” look.

The voices in Bruce’s head kept reassuring him
that he was doing the right thing cooperating with Kevin. But the voices hadn’t
prepared him for what he saw in the back of Kevin’s van. His hands slid down
the sides of his face until they cradled his chin.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh. shit.

Kevin pulled the trussed up and gagged Highway
Patrol trooper toward the back of the van. The trooper tried to kick Kevin, but
the demon-elf caught his legs and held them tight. The trooper struggled, but
could not kick free. Kevin kept one arm wrapped around the trooper’s legs while
he reached behind his back and retrieved an object from the waistband of his
jeans. He jammed the object against the trooper’s thick neck. It was slightly
larger than an electric razor. The trooper tried to pull away, his eyes wide
and pleading.

“You be good now,” Kevin said. The trooper’s
entire body repeatedly jerked.

“Oh shit,” was all Bruce managed.

“Shut up and help me,” Kevin ordered.

Kevin had pulled the trooper up into a sitting
position revealing the naked dead girl hidden by the trooper’s bulk.

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh. Holy. Shit,” Bruce said
aloud, stuck like an old vinyl record. His eyes blinked rapidly.

“Come on. Grab this guy before he starts kicking
again. If he kicks me in the ‘nads, I’m gonna electrocute his balls. Yours
too.”

The voices shouted commands at Bruce. They were
mean, nasty. Bruce wanted to tell them to shut up, but they were too loud. They
overpowered his mind. His resolve shattered.

“Okay,” Bruce whispered, speaking more to the
voices than to Kevin. “Okay,” he repeated. “Okay, okay, okay.”

The vinyl record was stuck again. The voices
moderated their tone. They sounded almost gentle.

“She loves you Bruce.”

“Do it for her.”

“It’s okaaay.”

“It’s okaaay.”

“It’s okaaay.”

“It’s okay,” Bruce repeated. “It’s okay. It’s
okay.”

In spite of their reassurance, somewhere deep,
deep inside, Bruce knew it was definitely not okay.

Kidnapping cops. Naked, dead girls in a van. No, it
was not okay. But Bruce was not in control anymore. The voices had control. Kat
had control. Kevin had control and Bruce felt truly damned.

In the middle of a large room, Carl Johns sat tied to a
chair. He was scared. Not the nervous, did-I-pass-my-finals scared, but the
holy-shit-crap-in-my-pants-I’m-gonna-die kind of scared. But he was also
pissed. Pissed at the little freak using a cell phone to record another
humiliating video, and even more pissed at himself. His mind played back the
stop that got him into this situation. He had been distracted, not focused on
the job, and it had cost him. Cost him dearly.

Not a hint of daylight poked through the spaces
between curtains and windows. The sun had fled and blackness embraced the world
leaving Carl feeling as dark inside as the night outside. Probably, by now, his
wife would have called the troop headquarters, wondering if there had been some
kind of emergency call. Maybe they had found his abandoned cruiser. The entire
Florida Highway patrol went on alert when one of their own went missing. Carl wished
for an FHP SWAT team to burst into the room, taking out the little freak and
his fat, worthless companion.

As the little freak videoed him, Carl flexed his
muscles, testing his bonds. They had tied him tight. But Carl forced himself to
believe that he would either escape or be rescued. He gave the little freak the
angriest, hate-filled look he could muster. Carl wanted nothing more than to
get loose and break the dirtbag’s neck with his bare hands, but not until he
had tased the little bastard three or four or twenty times. He wanted to see
him piss and crap himself and cry for his momma. Carl tried to project his
homicidal intent into the little freak’s skull as he wondered why the SWAT team
was taking so damn long.

***

When Jim Demore received the text
message on his cell phone, followed by the video, his first thought was that he
was being punked. He knew a couple of guys that were big enough jerks to pull
something like this. Despite the dark and tiny video, Jim saw that it was Carl
Johns tied to the chair, and Carl was not someone to play along with this kind
of crap. At least Jim didn’t think so. In Jim’s experience, Carl was not that
particular type of flaming a-hole. Jim read the text message again and switched
back to the video.
Hell no
.
This is no stunt.

It was obvious that Carl Johns was in some kind of
deep
kimchi. The video showed him seated in a high-back chair that
looked as if it came from another century. Carl had his feet and hands bound
with more rope wrapped around his chest. He had a gag in his mouth and anger in
his eyes. From the look on his face, whoever had tied him up needed to be
praying that Carl would not get loose.

A hand holding a Taser came into the frame and
pressed it against Carl’s neck. Carl’s eyes widened and the look of hatred
intensified, but, now it was mixed with fear. Carl jerked. His head flopped
forward and he twitched a little. After a moment, he raised his head. This time
his eyes sent Jim a clear message:
rescue me
.

The text message that followed the video gave Jim
only one option — meet with the kidnapper alone, or Carl would die. Jim had ten
minutes to reply. He had used up seven trying to figure out what the hell was
going on. Jim typed two words into his cell phone.
Where? When?
The
reply flashed back.

 “Soon,” the text read. “Only you. Anyone else,
he dies.”

That was it. No other message followed.
Who
the hell would kidnap a Highway Patrol Trooper? And why Carl?

Carl was married, had kids, and lived on a cop’s
salary. His wife worked, but they were far from rich. Jim knew Carl well enough
to know that they did not even have any equity in their house. Not since the
last real estate market crash. This was not about money. If it
were
about money, the call would have gone to Carl’s family. No, this was not about
Carl. No one in his right mind would kidnap a Florida law enforcement officer,
in full uniform, video the hostage, and threaten to kill him, unless he fully
intended to carry out the threat. Cop’s intuition told Jim that this was about
him. Carl was just the unlucky bastard who got stuck in the middle.

Jim made sure he had saved the video and text
message. He absolutely believed they would kill Carl if he failed to cooperate,
but he wanted at least one other person to know about the situation. Someone he
trusted who could be a credible witness that believed the threat to Carl was
real and imminent. That he had been unwilling to risk Carl’s life by involving
other law enforcement. He called Saffi.

***

Saffi luxuriated in a hot,
relaxing bath. Essential oils of lavender, chamomile, orange blossom, and
melissa created a soothing atmosphere that Saffi hoped would soak away the
stress and anxiety caused by school, work, and Jim Demore.

She took a deep breath, taking pleasure in the
rich aroma and soft embrace of the hot water. Saffi closed her eyes and went on
her way to a mental mini-vacation on an imaginary tropical beach populated by
only herself and Jim Demore, when her cell phone rang. An ugly, intrusive
sound, coming at exactly the wrong time. She reached for the phone, pausing for
a second to wipe fragrant foam off her hands with a small towel.

One of the first lessons about forensic police
work was that crime never took time off. So she always answered her phone.
Seeing Jim Demore’s number on the phone’s caller ID pleasantly surprised her.

“Hi, Jim,” Saffi said. Her voice sanguine, she
felt herself relax again. “I’m glad it’s you. I was afraid I was being called
out.”

She let her free hand push the hot water around
the tub. She surveyed the watery real estate, with its room for two, and
smiled.
If Jim and I were married..
.

“I need your help,” he said.

Her hand stopped stirring the water.

“What’s going on?”

“Can you meet me?” Jim asked.

“Now?”
Goodbye, paradise.

“I can be at your place in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it twenty, okay?”

“Twenty minutes. See you there.”

Saffi disconnected the call and put the phone down.
She lifted the lever controlling the drain plug and watched paradise swirl
away.