Demon Key

by David Brookover

  “That’s Elaine’s car,” he exclaimed, an anxious tremor in his voice.

  Dex and Teddi crossed the gully and inspected the car. It was still locked. The glint of a shiny object thirty feet away caught Teddi’s attention, and she drifted from Dex, slipped on a pair of latex gloves to preserve any prints that might be on the object, and picked it up. Car keys dangling from a Mickey Mouse key ring.

  “These might be her keys,” she told Dex, when she returned to the Neon.

  “Slip one in the lock and let’s find out.”

  The Plymouth key easily turned the lock with a click.

  “Where’s the remote locking device?” Dex asked Cohen.

  “She lost it last year at some party. Never replaced it. Too expensive,” he replied. “Poor woman. Never even made it to her car.”

  “Looks that way,” Dex stated noncommittally.

  A local news van turned into the alley, and Teddi stepped in front of it with outstretched arms. “This is an FBI crime scene. Back it up and stay a hundred feet from the deli and that red Neon. Got it?” she ordered them curtly.

  The driver frowned, and the woman reporter in the passenger seat was already shouting into her cell phone. She didn’t look pleased.

  “How about an interview?” the driver shouted.

  “Maybe later,” she answered, and rejoined Dex.

  “Lookie here,” Dex said, kneeling on the sand bar farther down the alley.

  Teddi inspected a deeply grooved depression in the mud beyond the sand. “Tire print. Think it belongs to our guy?”

  “The way the print is perpendicular to the parking spaces, I’d say our suspect backed up as close as he could to Brewster’s car to load her up.”

  “Pretty deep print.”

  “Yeah. A pick-up for sure. A big one, not one of those dinky foreign jobs.”

  “Why not a van or box truck?” she argued.

  He stretched both hands across the depression, but they failed to touch the sides. “Wide mud tires. Only folks travelin’ around the swamp use ‘em. Lots of local kids have ‘em installed on their lifted pick-ups to go muddin’, but I’d wager that this guy wasn’t a kid,” he explained.

  Teddi cocked her head. “And why’s that?”

  “Too tidy. Our boy isn’t careless like the pot-smokin’, joy-ridin’ purse-snatchers who operate in these parts. Hell, they drop clues the size of bread loaves.” He smiled wanly. “And our perp is big and strong.”

  “Because he had to physically handle the obese victims?”

  “Mmm mmm.”

  “Could be two men, or even a gang, too,” she countered.

  Dex stood stiffly, massaged his lower back, and shook his head. “Nah, this guy’s got secrets, and you know that if there were two people involved, one would blab.”

  “Secrets? Have I missed something here?” Teddi asked, a little miffed.

  “Yeah, you’ve missed out on twenty years of detective experience, but as you can tell by my tired ole back, I haven’t. There’s only one logical reason that I can think of that a deranged fella like our perp would snatch five women in three weeks without asking for a little travelin’ cash for their safe return.”

  Teddi gave the problem some deep reflection, but her FBI texts failed to depict a crime scenario quite like this. Even the Bureau shrinks and their profiling software came up empty on this case . . . at least so far.

  “Okay, I’m stumped. Why would our perp do this without help and without asking for ransom?”

  Dex bent, plucked a pebble from the sand bar and chucked it at the television van. It fell hopelessly short of its mark. “Because his victims are most likely dead. And that leads me to believe that he needs ‘em for some kind of personal ritual sacrifice.”

  She whistled. “That’s a little farfetched, don’t you think? But if that is the case, then why’s he kidnapping these women now? What’s so special about this time of year?” She paused, her hands on her hips. “Or what event has occurred to instigate the ritual?”

  Dex patted her shoulder lightly. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, kiddo. Those are exactly the questions that need answerin’.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Your theory still seems a bit of a stretch to me.”

  “Teddi, this is exactly how extraordinary crimes get solved.”

  “With fantastic theories?” she asked skeptically.

  Dex studied the isolated red Neon. “Now you’re gettin’ it. The FBI computers are incapable of thinkin’ beyond black and white. They deal in programmed scenarios and the odds of a crime fittin’ one of them or not. This a fringe crime, accordin’ to your ex-husband. Like tryin’ to fit a round peg into a square hole, so to speak.”

  Teddi frowned. “He told you that?”

  “Oh yeah, but your ex’s programmed the same as his computers. He can’t see beyond the scope of his computer printouts. That’s why he’s failed to locate our perp and why your boss sent you down here to replace him as lead investigator.”

  “I’m not following you. How does all that relate to your off-the-wall theory?”

  His eyes twinkled as he swiveled his gaze to her. “You have a reputation for thinkin’ outside the box, Teddi. Time to start livin’ up to it.”

  Chapter 6

  By the time the FBI crime scene investigators arrived behind Cohen’s Deli, Dex and Teddi were finished collecting blind-man’s clues, as Dex referred to the obvious big stuff left by the perp. The tire marks and car keys were it. He indicated that if there had been any more evidence, the storm washed it away, but Teddi reminded him that the FBI believed in being thorough, so it would sift through the crime scene one more time.

  When Dex pulled into the parking lot fronting the single-story, white stucco Gator Creek Police Station, a pair of Florida Power and Light trucks were parked off to the side. The crew was busily replacing the blown transformer on the wood pole outside Dex’s office. A solitary man standing in the cherry-picker bucket among the tangle of live oak limbs was busy positioning the new transformer and bolting it in place. Two of the ground crew were splicing new electric cables to be hoisted up to the bucket man later.

  Dex swung into his reserved space littered with small branches and mounds of Spanish moss, and Teddi grunted as she climbed from his car.

  “Damn!” she muttered, spying the black FBI Chevy Suburban parked to their left.

  Dex chuckled. “Trouble?”

  “Big time.”

  He arched his shaggy brows. “How come?”

  “My ex-husband’s inside, and he’s a . . .”

  “Piece of work?”

  “Piece of shit,” she finished.

  He nodded knowingly and led the way through the front door into the dimly lit lobby. The phone lights were black, and the coffee pot sat unused beside the Mr. Coffee.

  Three men sporting blue lightweight jackets with the letters FBI emblazoned on the back in substantial letters turned abruptly as Dex and Teddi entered. A wide grin spread across the stockiest of the three.

  “Teddi,” he greeted her with faux-sincerity. “How nice to see you again.”

  “Cut the crap, Ryan,” she snapped. “It was my understanding that you and I were never to work the same case after our divorce. We’ve been divorced for a month, so . . .”

  Ryan Wilkerson held his hands out. “Whoa, sweetheart, this wasn’t my doing. Honest. Blame Charlie Simmons. He’s the one who told me to stay down here with you. Trust me, it wasn’t my idea.” He paused. “I guess he wants the best agents on this case.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Ryan. Dex and I don’t need you here.”

  He turned to the other two agents. “See, guys, what I had to put up with during our marriage. Such a temper,” Ryan cracked. He was five-foot-eight with a barrel chest and two hundred pounds of muscle. His wintry brown eyes peered out from a square face swathed in arrogance. He interlaced his thick fingers and cracked his knuckles.

  “Just what are you doing here?” Dex demanded, ann
oyance simmering beneath his bland expression.

  “The brass wants stakeouts at all the fat people hangouts,” he replied smugly. “I’m here to oversee the operation. Seems the national press has gotten wind of these abductions and is turning up the heat on FBI Director Rance Osborne to catch this guy. So, he ordered his first team to stay down here to help you guys catch your perp. Charlie suggested that we make your office our center of operations.”

  Dex rubbed his jaw. “That was generous of him. What about Special Agent McCoy? She’s in charge now,” Dex inquired.

  “She heading your investigation, but me and my boys are fronting the visible case and handling the press.” Ryan turned to his ex-wife. “Call Charlie if you don’t believe me.”

  Teddi stormed out of the station and dialed Simmons on her satellite phone. Her blood pressure spiked, and her temper festered beneath the stifling Florida sun. Charlie picked up his own phone on the first ring.

  “Teddi,” he said pleasantly. “Thought I might be hearing from you.”

  “How could you do this to me?” she nearly shouted. “Do you know how this looks to the other agents when you bump me and put Ryan in charge? Do you?”

  “Hold on just a minute, Teddi, no one’s taking you off the case! I sent Ryan down to Gator Falls . . .”

  “Gator Creek,” she corrected him.

  “Right. Anyway, I want Ryan to try everything by the book to catch this crazy son-of-a-bitch to keep the press happy. Despite their public grumbles, they’re having a field day with the story. Ratings have soared on all the major evening news programs.”

  “I’m so happy for them. Just where does that leave me?”

  Charlie cleared his throat. “I said by the book. Personally, Rance and I don’t believe for a minute that those tactics will flush this guy out into our nets. Ryan and his team are there to simply buy us some time, while you work behind the scenes with Dex, so to speak.”

  “Behind the scenes? Doing what? Ryan’s laundry?”

  Charlie laughed. “You can be so melodramatic sometimes, Teddi.”

  Teddi turned her mouth from the phone. “I can be a real bitch, too,” she muttered.

  “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “Never mind.”

  “Venting, huh?”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Then I’m glad you’re there and I’m here. I’ve seen you vent before, remember?” He cleared his throat again during the uneasy phone silence that followed. “I want you to look someone up for me and persuade him to join you down there.”

  Teddi planted her free hand on her hip. “Who?”

  “Someone who can assist you in solving this case. I want the three of you to work as a team to nab this guy,” Charlie explained.

  “What about Ryan?”

  “He’ll be yanked off the case publicly when he fails to capture the perp. And, I stress again, he will fail. There’s more to this kidnapper than meets the eye.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard that today.”

  “Dex tell you that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not surprised, obviously. Everything you see in Gator Creek is camouflage to the abductor. My theory is that he’s buried in hundreds of years of Florida folklore and myths. Sort of a ritual thing.”

  “And my new partner’ll be able to see past this supernatural camouflage?”

  “If he can’t, I don’t know who the hell can.”

  Teddi wasn’t completely sold on the supernatural angle. “What’s his name?”

  “Jackson LaFevre.”

  Teddi paused and ran the vaguely familiar name through her mental Rolodex. She glanced absently toward the east and was alarmed to see a bank of pitch-black clouds obliterating the horizon. No warm gray. Just angry obsidian. And, it was headed her way. God, more rain! Just what we need. A cool, briny gust rustled her blonde hair.

  “Not the one they call the Cajun Psychic?” she said at last.

  “The one and the same.”

  “But I heard that he works alone.”

  “It’s up to you to persuade him to join the home team,” Charlie said somberly. “And this isn’t for publication. His help is strictly to be on the Q.T.”

  “You don’t ask for much,” she grumbled sarcastically. “The press is everywhere.”

  “You can handle it. That’s why I sent you down there in the first place.”

  “You seem pretty confident that he’ll help us.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  Teddi knew better than to press her superior. “So where do I find this psychic of yours?”

  “Somewhere in the middle of the Louisiana bayou. Outside a place called Breaux Bridge. Ask around when you get there.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Never been more serious. He doesn’t have a business card, and he sure as hell doesn’t trust us.”

  She watched the power company workers hoist up the new electric cable. “Thanks. I’ll keep you posted.” Teddi disconnected the call and turned to find Dex waiting for her.

  “More trouble?” he asked, observing her glum visage.

  “Dex, you might say that I’ve just been shoved out of the frying pan into the fire.”

  “Charlie’s turnin’ up the heat, eh?”

  “No. It’s more like a four-alarm fire.”

  Chapter 7

  The storm drummed on the archaic tin roof, and the wind whistled shrilly through the splits in the rotting shutters. Alligator bellows carried across the Everglades; it was mating season, and the males were horny as hell. The single-story, ramshackle house rested on stilts to keep high water from invading the interior. The structure stood alone on an isolated key west of Fort Lauderdale and blended in well with its bleak surroundings. Lichen mottled the dark wood shingles, a blue-green that matched the trunks of the neighboring knock-kneed cypress and pine trees. Few knew of the structure’s existence. Only the local gator poachers dared to hunt in that part of the swamp, but they knew enough to avoid trespassing on the small island.

  According to Indian legends, the key was haunted. Many people throughout Florida’s mysterious history had simply vanished there. Even gators had been found torn to scaly shreds. Generations of fishermen had quietly claimed that they had heard monstrous roars and had seen strange shapes in the mist, but no lawman had ever investigated those claims. They’d been too afraid.

  Big Man liked it that way.

  He stretched his tall sinewy frame in the tattered recliner and paid close attention to the six-o’clock news on a Fort Lauderdale television station – especially the local news. His abductions were all the rage, and the jabbering reporters rehashed every detail of the missing women’s lives without shedding any light on their disappearances. They bemoaned the FBI’s and local law enforcements’ failed efforts to arrest the kidnapper. Big Man laughed, deep and hoarse. No sympathy on that score.

  A solitary candle beside Big Man’s elbow kept the darkness at bay. The flickering television images cast transient shadows on the bare walls, but they didn’t unnerve him. He was a part of the damn key curse, and nothing unsettled his nerves. Not the bull gators. Not the six-foot iguanas calling his key home. Not the water moccasins that were constantly underfoot.

  He exhaled noisily. He wasn’t being completely honest with himself. One key resident did rumble his bowels. He fingered a singular object clipped to a gold chain encircling his thick neck. It was a primeval miniature flute with extraordinary properties. As long as he possessed it, he was safe. Safe from it.

  He leaned forward as the television picture switched to a live shot outside the dinky Gator Creek police station. Dex Lowe stood stoically in the background, a displeased host.

  Big Man turned up the volume with his remote. The FBI was holding a brief press conference beneath the swaying oaks, and now he and a few hundred thousand viewers were stuck watching an FBI blowhard feed them a spew of misinformation.

  What really caught his interest was
the FBI spokesman at the makeshift podium. He looked like the typical bureaucratic asshole. This guy was named Supervisor Wilkerson, or so the snipe at the bottom of the screen declared. Hell, the name didn’t matter. He was just another clone. What the hell had happened to the cute little piece-of- ass blonde agent who was in charge of the investigation?

  “ . . . and so there has been a change of guard in Broward County. The FBI takes this case very seriously, and we’re expending an enormous amount of manpower here just as we would if we were faced with a terrorist threat. You will see results. The FBI’s first team is here now,” Wilkerson stated with a smirk, before the feed was switched back to the usual gang of idiots in the studio.

  “Cocky SOB,” Big Man muttered. “Stupid as hell, too. They’ll never catch me now.”

  Suddenly, his eyes glazed over, and his consciousness faded to black. Two drummers, a crackling bonfire, six naked black female dancers, and a black robed figure filled his vacant mind. Great moss-infested trees flickered at the edge of the firelight as the drumbeats swelled to a frenzied rhythm. The nimble dancers gyrated at an unbelievably wild pace. The robed figure raised his hands. The drumming ceased, and the dancers dropped to their hands and feet. The robed figure murmured an ancient chant, and his robe suddenly crumpled to the ground. The figure inside was gone.

  Big Man blinked awake, shook off the vision, and stood. He felt like a new man. More clever. More ruthless. He liked that. A lot. He stretched and yawned. He felt reborn.

  He grabbed the candlestick and strode into his bedroom, the floor creaking beneath his weight as he walked. Dingy wrinkled sheets covered the saggy mattress, and his hunting outfit was draped over a headboard post. Black slacks, black cotton shirt, black rain slicker, snake boots, and a black rain hat. He dressed slowly as if it were a symbolic ritual, and when he finished, he snatched a box of drugged darts and his air rifle off the kitchen table.