Demon Key

by David Brookover

  Teddi had just slipped into a deep sleep when the phone on the nightstand rang. The ring was loud and shrill, enough to wake the dead. She glanced groggily at the radio-alarm clock. It read 2:41 am. Now who was calling her this late at night? Dread gnawed her stomach as it always did when someone called in the middle of the night.

  Trouble or tragedy. Roll the dice.

  She fumbled the receiver, and it dropped to the sheets. She picked it up again.

  “Hello?”

  “Teddi, it’s Ryan. Get your ass out of bed! We’ve got our first lead on our abductor,” her ex-husband shouted. He gave her a Pompano Beach address and hung up.

  She threw back the covers, phoned Dex, and quickly dressed.

  Teddi had no problem locating the address. At least a half-dozen rescue vehicles and cop cars were parked at various angles in front of a seamy bar with their blue and white lights flashing in the gloom. She spotted Dex’s Impala in the small lot beside the bar and parked next to him.

  He stepped out of the car and walked toward her dark green Jeep Liberty. Teddi opened her umbrella and joined him.

  “Quite a circus,” he remarked solemnly.

  “What’s up?”

  “Dead African American teen. About seventeen would be my guess,” he answered.

  “And our perp?”

  “You’ll have to ask your ex. He’s stayin’ mum about that.”

  “Figures,” she muttered, and marched through the standing water to the crowd of uniformed men outside the bar. Three wore FBI hooded rain slickers.

  “If it isn’t Mary Poppins,” Ryan joked, nodding at her umbrella.

  “Knock-off the smart-ass remarks and tell me how this dead guy is related to our case,” she demanded.

  Ryan nodded toward the lump beneath a black tarp. “Our perp murdered this man. Exactly why, I have no idea, but I’m sure our kidnapper’s the guy. The victim took a dart to the throat, and judging from the depth of penetration, it was fired from a rifle or pistol at close range. I’m having our lab boys run a full toxicity screening and determine the exact cause of death,” he reported brusquely.

  “So why are you so certain that this was the work of our perp?” Teddi prodded.

  Distant lightning flashed on the ocean horizon, as Ryan’s lips spread into his infamous shit-eating grin.

  “Because one of the patrons of this fine establishment is missing. A heavy-set woman named Shelene Foster,” he replied smugly. “And I have two somewhat reliable witnesses who swear that they saw her riding away in an older model Ford pick-up with some guy.”

  “License plate number?” she snapped.

  “In their somewhat inebriated condition, they were fortunate to see the pick-up,” he replied. “One of them thought the plate was covered with mud, but the truck’s lights were out, so he couldn’t tell for sure.”

  “That’s a couple too many somewhat’s for me to take your witnesses seriously,” Teddi retorted.

  Ryan pulled his hood closer to his face. “We’re going ahead with or without you, Teddi, so get over it. I didn’t request to be sent down to this mosquito-infested hellhole.”

  The rain dribbled over the edge of her umbrella. “Fuck you, Ryan! This investigation isn’t about you or me! It’s about all those missing women, and now we have another one – Shelene Foster. Let’s focus on that for a second, okay?”

  He shrugged again. “Sure, why not. We’re professionals here, right?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Good. Just stay out of my way if you’re not interested in my leads. Me, I care about that dead boy over there, and I’m sure as hell fascinated by what my two witnesses told me. If you really want to help, put out an APB on a nineties-something Ford pick-up, full-size and either dark green or black,” he suggested gruffly. “Oh, and one more thing. The truck had a Florida license plate.”

  “They’re positive?”

  “Yeah. Big fruity oranges showed through the mud streaks. It certainly isn’t New Jersey’s.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Bitch.”

  Dex stood on the periphery of the conversation, but took it all in. When Teddi stomped away, he grabbed her elbow.

  “Don’t let that schmuck get you all riled up,” he advised her. “Forget who he is, and remember why you’re here.”

  “It’s harder than it sounds.”

  “I know, but if you let him bully you like that, this crime will never get solved.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meanin’ that ex-husband of yours couldn’t find his ass with both hands. He’s in it for the newspaper headlines and bureau promotions. Someone else will have to put the pieces together for him.”

  Teddi managed a grim smile as she wiped the blowing rain from her face.

  “And furthermore,” he continued, “you’re those women’s only hope of rescue, if they’re still alive. I suggest that we split up for the next couple days. We can cover more ground that way, because time is of the essence here.”

  “You know, I feel the same sense of urgency.” Her face was suddenly pinched with concern.

  “What’s eatin’ you now?” Dex inquired.

  “I just had a disturbing thought.”

  Dex waited.

  “What if the rain stops, and dry weather sets in? The kidnapper might stop, and we’ll never have another opportunity to catch him.”

  Chapter 12

  Teddi agreed with Dex that they needed to split up. He planned to question the descendant of the old Everglades Press owner, while she flew to Louisiana to locate the FBI’s psychic resource, Jackson LaFevre. She called the Washington office when she returned to her motel and requested the Cajun Psychic’s phone number and address. Securing both, she tried calling Jackson LaFevre during her drive to the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport, but got nothing but rings. No answer. No voice mail. She turned off her satellite phone after she boarded the plane bound for Lafayette, Louisiana. Just what kind of help was this guy going to be if he wouldn’t answer his damn phone?

  In the back of her mind, she suspected that she was on a wild goose chase. What if LaFevre was out on another assignment? What if he refused to help her? For that matter, why didn’t Charlie Simmons make contact with this volatile guy himself?

  Suddenly, she felt like a fool, maybe even a sacrificial lamb. Perhaps Charlie had handed her this assignment to keep her out of Ryan’s hair during the ongoing investigation. If that was the case, Charlie Simmons was going to get an earful when she returned to Washington. Maybe even her resignation.

  She sighed. No use getting worked up over this LeFevre weirdo and Charlie’s possible treachery until the situation warranted it. It was counterproductive. Stay cool and just find this swamp guy, Teddi.

  The plane landed on time at Lafayette Airport, and a representative of Atchafalaya Swamp Tours met Teddi outside the baggage claim area. He threw her over-night bag into the front seat and headed east on Interstate 10 to the small town of Breaux Bridge, which boasted seven thousand residents. The driver turned into a tour business parking lot where Agricole LeBlanc, her personal tour guide, greeted her.

  “Good morning,” he smiled, his white teeth in stark contrast to his deep olive skin. He was Hollywood handsome, medium build and height, and in his mid-twenties. “You want me to take you into the bayou, no?” he asked with a clipped Cajun accent.

  “I’m afraid so.” She unfolded a slip of paper with LaFevre’s address and handed it to the guide. “I’m in kind of a hurry, Mr. LeBlanc.”

  He shook her hand and gently raised it to his lips. “Please, call me Cole.” He kissed the back of her hand, and Teddi felt a slight tingle. Two in two days. She felt like a giddy heroine in a romance novel, but only for a few seconds.

  “Thanks, Cole,” she managed, with a slight blush. “But I’m still in that rush.”

  “All you FBI agents are in a big hurry to take care of business. What would it hurt to stop and smell the roses for an hour and see the real ba
you?” His voice was melodic and charming.

  “Because innocent lives are on the line back in Florida,” she replied firmly. “If I dawdle away that hour of yours, another life may be taken that could have been saved. So, let’s skip the tour and head over to Jackson LaFevre’s place. Okay?”

  Cole hunched his shoulders. “You’re the boss. Maybe another time, no?”

  “That might be lovely.”

  They boarded a three thousand pound airboat, and she caught herself admiring his sculpted body as he threw off the mooring lines and tossed her a pair of ear protectors resembling headphones.

  “The engine’s verrry loud,” he said in his tour voice. “You can hear me through the headphones.”

  Teddi nodded and watched civilization quickly give way to the gloom of the bayou. Alligators snoozed on muddy banks in the shade of Spanish moss tinseled willow, red maple, live oak, and tupelo trees. The lush swamp foliage was both breathtaking and foreboding. When the thick overhead canopy broke for a short distance, Teddi observed several bald eagles and red-tailed hawks gliding overhead in the sunlit sky.

  Although Cole pointed out the various streams and rivers as they changed course, all Teddi could see was marshy wetlands spanning the entire landscape. There were no signs of merging streams or rivers. Just swamp to her.

  She swatted a nasty black mosquito perched on her arm as they reached the darkest section of the bayou, and Cole tossed her a can of mosquito repellent. Great! If she applied that, she would reek of that oily scent when she met LaFevre. She threw the can back to Cole.

  “I’ll take my chances,” she mouthed.

  A half hour into their trip, a long dock came into view. It appeared new, with green pressurized wood for framing and planks. The supports were securely fastened to several concrete pilings. Teddi wondered why there was no boat present. Her old fear resurfaced. Was LaFevre even here?

  Cole slowed the engine, guided the airboat parallel to the wooden frame, and looped the mooring lines over two of the pilings. He shut down the engine and removed his headset.

  “This is it,” he announced, his eyes nervously scanning the brief shoreline.

  Teddi’s gaze failed to penetrate the tangle of foliage. “I don’t see a house.”

  “Take my word for it, it’s back there – way back there. Just follow that stone path for about a quarter mile, and you’ll see it,” he explained, then swallowed. “Jackson doesn’t like visitors, so I suggest that you shout out your name and why you’re there every fifty feet or so.”

  She cocked her head. “Why in the world would I do that?”

  “So he doesn’t shoot you. His motto is ‘shoot first and ask questions later,’” Cole replied grimly. “He’s one eccentric dude.”

  Chapter 13

  Dex rolled out of bed at the crack of dawn and greeted another rainy day. Since Isaac Noonan was an early riser, he thought he’d get this over with and save the rest of the day for more weather related emergencies.

  The police chief parked his Impala in front of an old beige doublewide manufactured home in the center of a quaint retirement community. The St. Augustine lawn was under water as Dex sloshed his way between two queen palms to the side door.

  Sergeant Ike awaited him behind the screen door, slumped in his electric wheelchair. The old military man was badly crippled with arthritis; his fingers and toes were gnarled dysfunctional tangles, and his deformed spine resembled the infamous Hunchback of Notre Dame. His face was twisted in agony, and his dark eyes were glossy slits from his potent pain medications.

  “This damn rain’s kicking the shit outa me, Dex,” Ike grumbled, as he slid the screen door aside and rolled backward in his wheelchair. “My joint pain’s near intolerable these days.”

  Dex draped his dripping rain slicker over the coat hook to the left of the doorway. “Sorry to hear it, Ike. Life sure stinks sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  “Sure does. C’mon in and sit a spell.”

  “I’d like to, but I’m pretty much pressed for time these days.”

  “The kidnappings?”

  Dex nodded. “Afraid so.”

  “I figured you might be by to check out a similar crime written up in my granddad’s newspaper a long time ago,” he said.

  “You did, did you? Why didn’t you call me and let me know about this old crime? Mighta helped me shut down this guy by now and save some women’s lives,” he muttered.

  “My phone’s been disconnected, and I ain’t exactly in shape to make a run to your office,” he snapped back.

  “You gotta point there, Ike. Sorry. So where are these articles of yours?”

  “C’mon back to my granddad’s newspaper gallery. My dad transferred most of the old papers to microfiche and willed ‘em to me. Fill’s my whole damn third bedroom,” Ike complained, as he led Dex in that direction.

  Ike wasn’t kidding. Corrugated file boxes identified by months and years were nearly stacked to the seven-foot ceiling, blocking all the windows and the bathroom door on the opposite side of the confined room. Only a narrow corridor remained clear that allowed Ike to navigate between the boxes in his powered wheelchair.

  He switched on the lights. “I believe 1856 is the year we want, possibly May and June,” the eighty three year old mumbled.

  “Yeah, the spring of 1856.”

  Ike raised his crooked hand in the direction of a middle carton. “You’ll find what you’re looking for there, Dex. I’d pull it out for you, but I can’t do doodlie shit with these hands any more.”

  “No problem, Ike. I can handle it.”

  “Thank your lucky stars that you can. Time’ll come that maybe your wings won’t fly, either.”

  “Believe me, I am thankful,” Dex replied, as he scanned the dates. Bingo! He slipped the box neatly from beneath four others like a filing master and flipped off the cover. He pulled out a flat, thin plastic case. 1856. May and June.

  “Got someplace I can view these?” Dex asked.

  “Grab that white box in the corner there and follow me to the kitchen table.”

  Dex set up the light viewer on the maple table, inserted the first microfiche slide, and began his search. A couple minutes later, he froze. He found another article on the kidnappings – three weeks earlier than the one Teddi had come across on the Internet. The closing line chilled him:

  Sadly, it appears as if these kidnappings won’t be over until the last fat lady vanishes.

  He slowly studied the kidnapping articles, taking notes so he could accurately update Teddi when she returned with that psychic fellow. After an hour, Dex rubbed his strained eyes and closed down his little operation. He returned the box and viewer case to their original positions and thanked Ike for his help.

  “Hope to hell you can catch the bastard this time. My dad recited that dreadful old story a lot throughout my younger years. The sheriff back then, Ben Gandy, never did find that scoundrel, and he was so bothered by all the criticism from the local folks that he resigned and opened up a hardware store in Buffalo,” Ike remarked.

  “You don’t say?”

  “I do, and I swear on my old man’s grave that that’s the absolute truth.”

  “Well I’ll be.”

  Ike paused a moment. “You interested in the hardware business?”

  Dex laughed. “Not in the least.”

  “Well then, I certainly hope that you have better luck than ole Sheriff Ben Gandy did in 1856.”

  Dex nodded, then sobered. “Is there anything else you can remember from your dad’s stories that weren’t published in these newspaper articles?”

  Ike scratched his temple with the back of his swollen wrist. “Maybe,” he replied vaguely, as if trying to recall something important. Suddenly, he brightened. “I don’t know how much this is gonna help you, Dex, but I remember my old man repeating an old Miccosukee Indian folk tale about a killer demon that invaded the Everglades during years of heavy rains. The tribe lost a hulluva lot of braves and warriors fighting this creatur
e, but they never could kill it. Finally, it would just up and disappear somehow. From then on, whenever the real heavy rains came, the Injuns abandoned their villages and didn’t return until the flood waters receded.” Ike coughed. “Some folks back in 1856 thought they saw a monster out in the glades. A big ‘un. But nobody had the gumption to hunt the thing.”

  Dex grinned. “That’s some story all right.”

  “Mind you, Dex, some of those old tales have a smidge of truth in ‘em. Don’t be so anxious to reject them as crazy talk.”

  “I’ll consider it if that monster of yours can drive a black or dark green pick-up.”

  Ike’s laugh was a dry cackle. “Damn you, Dex. You had me going there for a second.”

  “See you ‘round, Ike.”

  “God willin’”

  As Dex drove away, he failed to notice a black pick-up parked around the corner from Ike’s place. After Dex exited the retirement community, Big Man eased the pick-up to a silent stop behind Ike’s doublewide and quietly approached the side door with a black leather valise in his hand that looked like an old-time doctor’s bag.

  He paused beside the sliding screen door, listening for Ike, and then yanked it aside.

  Chapter 14

  The screen door slammed against its stop, startling Sergeant Ike. A large familiar figure entered his house.

  “Hello Ike,” Big Man snarled ominously. “Been flappin’ your jaw to the heat, eh?”

  “Dex asked to see an old newspaper article, that’s all, Bo. Now get the hell outa here before I call Dex and have you arrested,” Ike bluffed, well aware that his phone was disconnected.

  “That won’t be necessary, gimp!”

  Bo strode over to Ike, opened the black valise, and emptied its contents onto the helpless crippled man. Thick squirming water moccasins rained down upon Ike’s head and body; two curled in his lap while several others slithered on the floor at his feet!

  Bo clucked his tongue. “You won’t be doin’ no more blabbin’ about me and my family, Ike, ‘cept to the Lord, iffen he’ll take delivery of your worthless old hide in Heaven.”