The Demon Pool

by Richard B. Dwyer

  “Linda, I got to go,” he said.

  “No, dammit. Don’t you dare hang up. I’m not doing this anymore. We have to talk. Five years. Are you just going to throw that away? What about the house? I made a commitment to you. Where’s your commitment to me?”

  “Linda, I have a job to do. Okay? We’ll talk later.”

  He did not wait for her reply. He knew she could hear the siren. He used his thumb to disconnect the call and he shoved the phone back into its holster.

  A quarter of a mile into the pursuit, he glanced at the Charger’s digital speedometer. One hundred miles per hour and climbing.

  Vehicles in front of the Charger scrambled to pull over. The gap closed between the two cars. He looked at the Charger’s speedometer again. One twenty and holding. He hoped the Corvette’s driver realized he had as much chance of winning this race as Jim had of winning his argument with Linda.

  His cell phone rang again. Probably Linda. She hated when he cut her off. Jim ignored the phone. Had it been five years already?

  Ahead, the Corvette’s brake lights flashed on and off. The right turn signal came on and the Corvette slid over to the paved shoulder. Good. This guy is using his head.

  Jim braked as the gap between the two cars closed. He thought about the five-year investment in his relationship with Linda. They had finally taken that relationship to the next level – buying the house together. They had talked about setting a date for a wedding. Had started a “honeymoon fund” together. All the regular stuff that committed couples do. Now she was pitching a fit about the job. Would it come down to changing careers or changing girlfriends? God, I hope not.

  As the Corvette came to a stop, Jim pulled behind it. He put the Charger in park and punched the license plate number into his computer. In a few seconds, the registration came back. He recognized the driver’s name. He’d thought the Corvette looked familiar. He would be giving Mr. Jefferson Augustine Briggs his second ticket in six months.

  Jim opened the door on the driver’s side. Hot, sticky Florida air pushed its way in, displacing the cool air inside. Late August in South Florida seemed like the Devil’s own personal sauna. He stepped out of the Charger and paused for a moment as a twinge of pain shot through his right knee. It had taken him a year of intense physical therapy to return to full-duty with the Highway Patrol after his last tour in Afghanistan. Although he felt some occasional stiffness, the last few months were mostly pain-free. Mostly.

  Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. He put on his regulation Smokey Bear campaign hat. Even Jim, a native-born Floridian, found the heat and humidity oppressive. He wondered how anyone survived the steamy Florida summers before the invention of air conditioning.

  As he approached the back of the Corvette, the driver’s side window slid down. He stopped just behind the driver’s door and leaned forward toward the open window. He kept his right hand on his gun.

  “License, registration and insurance, please, Mr. Briggs.”

  Jim spoke in a professional, but pleasant tone. He watched Briggs’ eyes jump to the nametag above Jim’s left pocket. Briggs smiled as he spoke.

  “We’ve done this before, haven’t we, Trooper Demore?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Briggs, I believe we have.”

  From behind his sunglasses, Jim’s eyes swept the Corvette’s interior. Nothing looked unusual. Briggs reached up and removed his registration and proof of insurance from the visor. He handed them over to Jim. Then Briggs pulled out his wallet and handed his driver’s license.

  “I know I was going a little fast, but I’m having dinner in Naples with the governor this evening. Just the two of us for a change. Don’t want to be late.”

  Briggs smiled.

  Jim shook his head and returned the smile.

  “You were doing a hundred and six, Mr. Briggs. I’ll be back in a moment, sir.”

  Jim returned to the Charger. Inside the patrol car, he checked the computer again. No wants, no warrants, and no other outstanding traffic tickets. Except for the ticket he was getting ready to write, and three points from the previous ticket, Briggs was clean.

  He filled out the citation, writing 90 in a 75 as the violation. Despite Briggs’ comment about dinner with the governor, a not-so-subtle attempt to influence Jim’s decision whether to write a ticket or a warning, he actually liked the man. For the most part, anyway. Briggs might have wealth and connections, but he also had an easy smile, and had treated Jim with respect both times he’d stopped him. That was not always the case with the wealthy vacationers and business people who drove the freeway between Tampa and Naples.

  ***

  Briggs kept glancing in the Corvette’s rearview mirror. Come on. Hurry up.

  He looked at his watch, a Bentley Mulliner Tourbillon chronograph. He had paid more than $200,000 for the platinum timepiece. For Briggs, though, the watch was more than a status symbol. It wasn’t about being the rich guy with the fast car and expensive watch. If a potential investor recognized and complimented him on the Bentley, he knew he had a whale and not some little fish.

  Briggs’ eyes went back to the rearview mirror. The patrol car’s flashing lights continued to announce Briggs’ failure to heed the warning from his radar detector. He had been on the phone with Robert Teal, his head of research at Advanced Genetic Technologies, when he blew past Trooper Demore. Teal had informed him that Teal’s lead research assistant was moonlighting at a topless joint near MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. The woman, Kat Connors, had worked at AGT for just over a year, and according to Teal, had proven herself a competent lab technician. Briggs had also heard that she was hot, but he had never met her. Not yet, anyway.

  He felt he paid his employees well. Well enough that his female employees had no need to moonlight, let alone at a gentleman’s club. He wondered how this little morsel of indiscretion got past AGT security. He would deal with the security lapse as soon as he returned from Naples.

  Briggs looked in his rearview mirror again. There are going to be some serious changes when I get back to Tampa. Where the hell is that damn cop?

  Briggs watched as Trooper Demore stepped out of his car. Demore returned to the Corvette with less caution than before. Briggs noticed that Demore’s right hand no longer rested on the butt of his gun. He held a clipboard with a ticket attached.

  “Mr. Briggs, my radar had you doing 106 in a 75 mile-per-hour zone. However, I appreciate your cooperation and that I didn’t have to chase you halfway to Naples. I wrote you up for 90.”

  Briggs gave him his best glad-you’re-my-friend smile as Demore pointed to the bottom of the ticket.

  “Please sign here, sir.”

  Briggs hesitated. Maybe there is a reason this guy stopped me today.

  “You know, Trooper Demore, I might have an opening soon on my company’s security team. I can tell that you are a sharp guy who knows what he is doing. How about a job with the hottest biotech company in the South? Good money, regular hours, benefits, pretty much the total package. We even have a generous clothing allowance. My security guys wear nice suits.”

  Demore smiled. “I’m not much of an indoor person, Mr. Briggs,” he said. He paused for a moment. “And I actually like what I do. Maybe serving the public for a living sounds old-fashioned.”

  Briggs continued his own forced, but well-practiced, smile.

  “You know, Trooper Demore, that’s exactly what we do at AGT. We serve the public. We serve by conducting the most advanced genetic research in the country. We do research that even MIT can’t duplicate. Millions of people are going to live dozens of years past their genetic potential because of what we do.”

  It was Briggs’ turn to pause as he searched Jim’s face.

  “And it won’t hurt that in the process we are going to create more millionaires than Microsoft. There is no price that people won’t pay to live longer. Especially when we free them of the diseases that come with aging.”

  Briggs’ face became serious as he reached into his jac
ket and pulled out a business card.

  “Think about it. Here’s my card. Call me personally if you ever get tired of chasing cars and scraping up roadkill.”

  Briggs turned his smile back on as Jim accepted the card and handed him the clipboard.

  “As you already know,” Jim said, “your signature is not an admission of guilt. It simply means that you agree to appear in court. Of course, you always have the option of paying the ticket by mail.”

  Briggs signed the ticket without comment and handed the clipboard back to Jim.

  “I appreciate your offer, Mr. Briggs but, like I said, I’m really not an indoor person. Now, please, slow down, sir. It would be a shame if the next roadkill I scrape up has your license plate attached to it.”

  ***

  Briggs’ smile faded as he reached for the Corvette’s window switch. Jim understood men like Briggs. Men who usually got their way and damn sure did not like being told “no.” He had seen the same trait in his father.

  The Corvette pulled away, picking up speed as it merged into the travel lane. Jim watched for a moment longer and then looked at the business card. The card looked expensive, printed on high-quality paper with an elegant font. The logo consisted of a purple and blue figure eight character embedded with diagonal yellow, purple and blue slashes. A stylized DNA double helix.

  The card read:

  Dr. Jefferson Augustine Briggs, PhD, Chief Executive Officer, Advanced Genetic Technologies, Our research begins where God’s miracles end.

  He thought about Briggs’ offer. Regular hours, benefits, not having to wear a uniform. Linda hated being around him when he wore his uniform, which was funny since that had been one of the things he thought had initially attracted her. At least that was what she had told him. His cell phone rang again.

  He sighed, put the business card away, and took out the phone. He flipped it open, glanced at the caller’s number and spoke without waiting for the voice on the other end.

  “Look, I like being a cop. I know you don’t get that, but it’s what I am and that’s not going to change anytime soon.”

  Silence.

  “Goodbye, Jim,” she said.

  The line went dead before Jim could reply.

  Jim stood beside the freeway watching the southbound traffic react to his car. Some people rubbernecked. Others stared straight ahead, both hands on their steering wheels at 10 and 2, probably thanking the freeway gods that he was outside his car, and that today, they would not be sacrificed on the altar of traffic court.

  It was not that he was not willing to make some sacrifices for his relationship with Linda, but some was not enough for her. Linda was high maintenance. No, actually high, high maintenance.

  Her family had immigrated to Florida from the Dominican Republic when she was a child. Her predominantly Spanish bloodline, with a hint of African ancestry, made her exotically beautiful. Oh yeah, she is something special. And she damn well knows it.

  He took Briggs’ business card back out of his shirt pocket and stared at it. How do you know which decision you’re going to regret in ten — or even five — years?

  He already knew the answer. You don’t.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kat Connors stared at her reflection in the mirror. She did not look like most of the girls that worked at the club. No tattoos, no weird body piercing, and no silicon. Unlike most of the girls working tonight, she wore her make-up light and natural. She turned sideways. Nothing sagged. Not bad for white trash.

  Kat looked around at the dancers’ dressing room. It was a large room, but it seemed crowded due the number of girls working on Friday night. Forty makeup stations, aligned against two walls, filled the elongated room. Forty mirrors, reflecting a dozen naked and half-dressed dancers, made the room resemble a porn-freak’s fun house. Clothing and costumes hung everywhere. Scattered stiletto heels, along with open trunks and suitcases filled with thongs, G-strings and other lingerie formed a Victoria’s Secret obstacle course. To Kat, it looked like an overcrowded cabin at some sick summer camp for throwaway girls.

  She might have become one of those throwaway girls. Abused, addicted, and incarcerated in a waking nightmare of drugs, alcohol, and easy money. Luckily, some instinct, some survival mechanism, kept her away from the drugs and alcohol that made most of her fellow dancers victims of one sort or another.

  The air in the room hung thick with perfumes and nail polish, punctuated by female sweat. It was an odd, pungent odor much different from the sterile laboratory smells of Kat’s day job at Advanced Genetic Technologies. She tried not to breathe too deeply.

  While her lab technician day job gave her health insurance and a sense of being a respectable member of society, something her mother had claimed she would never be, working at the club gave her cash. And in Kat’s economy, cash was king.

  She pulled on a thong, a tiny pair of shorts, and a skimpy halter-top. Along with her natural makeup, the outfit gave her a cute, girl-next-door look. A look that she knew certain men would pay a premium for. She looked at herself again. Not bad. Not bad at all, but not perfect. Not that it mattered. Guys never saw the flaws that she saw in herself.

  She sat at her makeup station and put on a pair of relatively modest, five-inch heels. She did not care much for the porn-star heels that some other girls wore. She checked the large clock on the wall at the far end of the room. Nine o’clock, almost showtime. Just another night in paradise.

  She stood and picked her way across the dressing room toward the door leading out to the club. At the last station, she glanced at her reflection again. Nope. Not bad at all.

  A small bulletin board hung next to the door. She checked the Friday night schedule. She didn’t have to be on stage until fifteen after ten. She pushed the door open and stepped into the club. She paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dim, smoky interior. Alcohol and cigarette stink replaced the perfume and makeup smells of the dressing room.

  Kat strolled through the club, smiling and stopping to say hello to men she recognized. She stopped in the middle of the club, glanced around, and spotted the man she was looking for — Bruce York.

  She watched Bruce watch her as she walked toward him. He always watched her, ever since he first came to the club. And that was exactly how she wanted it. Bruce, this Kat’s for you.

  Her smile grew brighter at her silly twist on the archaic beer commercial. Bruce smiled back at her as if the smile had been for him instead of about him. Foolish man.

  Bruce sat alone in a booth reserved for VIPs. Kat lifted her chest slightly, placed one foot in front of the other and let her hips roll just a bit more than usual as she approached the booth. Her eyes locked on Bruce’s and she slid in beside him. A two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle, but actually third-rate, champagne sat on ice at the table. Bruce held a half-full glass. She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. A pouty red mark tattooed his face.

  Bruce looked older than his fifty years. Medium height and on the heavy side, he had short, thinning, black hair that never behaved. Unremarkable defined him.

  “You started without me,” she sulked in mock disappointment.

  “I didn’t want to drink soda and you know I can’t mix beer and champagne,” Bruce apologized. “Besides, I knew you would be out soon.”

  “You take me for granted, Bruce. What if I had another customer? You’d have had to drink the whole bottle by yourself and then what would you do?”

  “Go to the bathroom a lot?” he said through a silly grin.

  Kat laughed. Thirty girls worked on Friday nights. Any other guy would have told her not to worry, that he would’ve found someone else to share it with. But not Bruce. She had this guy nailed down. Tight. She picked up the other champagne glass and waited for Bruce to pour.

  “How was work?” Her voice almost a purr.

  Bruce shrugged.

  “Keeps me busy. The federal government has a lot of property in Florida. Someone has to watch over it.”

  He filled Kat’s g
lass and put the champagne back on ice. His smile grew as he lifted his glass toward Kat.

  “I got the car,” he said.

  Kat touched her glass to his.

  “Nice. Show it to me later?”

  Bruce’s eyes went wide and his grin wider. Unmistakable pride brightened his face.

  “Sure.”

  Bruce finished off his drink while she sipped hers. She had first seen Bruce in the club several months before. He always wore a suit, sat alone sipping a beer or soda, and left before the club closed. Kat never saw him pay for a lap dance. Never saw him sitting with one of the other dancers. He seemed nice enough. One of the dozens of middle-aged guys who floated in and out of the club on their way to an empty retirement and their first heart attack. The dancers’ bread and butter.

  One evening, as she strolled the club on a slow, off-payday weekend, she noticed the expensive TAG Heuer Kirium watch on his wrist. She slid into the booth beside him and started talking. His face turned red and he looked like he might experience cardiac arrest right then. She had read once that a man’s watch made a statement about his station in life. A lot of guys wore fake Rolexes. But nobody wore a fake TAG Heuer.

  It took effort, but Bruce soon started buying her drinks. Not long after that, she got him to bump it up to the two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle, third-rate champagne. She never promised Bruce anything specific for his investment. She didn’t need to. She could say more with a touch and a look than most women could with a thousand words.

  It seemed as if Bruce always had money. More than she expected from a divorced, mid-level, government bureaucrat. Too shy for lap dances, he simply slipped her a twenty-dollar bill four or five times during the evening. Now that she had him hooked, Kat had to decide what she wanted to do with him. The trick with these guys was to keep them coming back without actually giving them what they ultimately wanted.

  The club’s DJ announced the next set and she let her hand fall to Bruce’s thigh.

  “My turn to dance. Maybe you can stay around tonight. Show me the new car when I get off?”