Pedro brought his cigar and ashtray back to the kitchen table, got the whiskey and glass from the counter, sat, and prepared the cigar by biting off the tip at one end. He then poured a straight shot of the bourbon into his glass, lit the cigar, and, in his mind, began a journey back to a better time and place. He did not get far. A loud rapping pulled Pedro back to reality. He glanced at the modern digital clock on the kitchen wall. Who in God’s sweet name would be visiting now?
Pedro purged the cigar and placed it in the ashtray, careful not to snub the end. If it went out naturally, he could always trim the end and relight it. If he snubbed it, it would stink and taste like crap later.
He looked at the glass of whiskey sitting next to the ashtray. Shrugging his shoulders, he picked up the glass, and killed it in one swallow, grimacing as the room temperature liquid burned its way down his throat. The knocking stopped for a moment and then started again.
“Just a minute, un momento, por favor.”
Pedro made his way across the living room and turned on the porch light. Looking through the peephole he had installed in the original front door, Pedro saw the fisheye image of a Florida Highway Patrol Trooper. It was the same trooper from the early morning accident. Pedro did not bother to get his robe from the bedroom. He turned the lever for the deadbolt and opened the door.
“Como estas? How can I help you?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
While Kat slept in a dark, cool room in the Colony House hotel, Baalzaric contemplated the day’s events. Kat had arrived early in the morning and spent the day out on an almost empty beach. In the evening, she enjoyed an expensive dinner of surf and turf accompanied by a 2000 Dom Pérignon, all on Bruce’s dime. Afterward, she watched the latest action thriller at a local theater, and was back in the room in time to catch the ten o’clock news.
“Florida entrepreneur Jefferson Briggs and a female companion died in a horrific traffic collision on I-75…”
A good end to a good day. The demon had enjoyed it all.
Kat nestled alone in the middle of a king-size, four-poster bed carefully placed as the center point of the room. She slept soundly surrounded by an eclectic mixture of classic Victorian furniture and turn-of-the-century Florida tropical decor. Baalzaric let her sleep.
He had learned to be patient. If he took too much control too soon, Kat could have a psychotic break. At least that is what the modern witch doctors, known today as psychiatrists, called it. It seemed that few of these so-called doctors, these priest-princes of science and technology, could discern the difference between mental illness and demonic possession.
But the priests who had arrived in La Florida with the Spanish conquerors in the sixteenth century knew the difference. They believed in demons. They believed so strongly that one of them had tried to send him into the pit. Baalzaric replayed the memory.
In 1528, his host, Captain Juan Carlos de la Viña, driven by Baalzaric’s demonic influence and cunning, had fought his way into the conquistador Cortez’s inner circle. Juan Carlos was poised to be appointed as a regional governor in Mexico. He had come a long way from Ponce de León and La Florida.
The initial connection between Baalzaric and Juan Carlos had been strong and quick — too quick it had turned out. The many “psychotic breaks” Juan Carlos experienced caused the high command’s spiritual advisor, Father Miguel, to suspect that the soldier’s bouts with mental instability were something more than the erratic temperament of a warrior who had taken too many blows to the head. Father Miguel, accompanied by soldiers loyal to the Church, took Juan Carlos into custody.
In preparation for his inquisition of Juan Carlos, the priest consecrated a chamber in the mission. The soldiers tied Juan Carlos securely to a sturdy chair. Father Miguel, ready to confront and exorcise the demon, did not know that Baalzaric was ready to confront him.
Baalzaric smiled to himself. More than four hundred years later, the memory remained fresh and vivid.
The foolish priest had never confessed his own hidden sin; therefore, everything that Father Miguel touched became polluted by that unrepentant corruption. The room where dozens of local savages had been tortured and killed in the name of God remained spiritually unclean. As the inquisition began, dark spirits hovered above Father Miguel, unseen by the unsanctified priest. Disembodied demons danced in anticipation, waiting to taste the shock and panic that would soon envelop the priest’s soul. Father Miguel began the exorcism.
“Speak your name, demon.”
Juan Carlos replied slowly, “Speak your sin, priest.”
Father Miguel looked startled. There was laughter, dark and ugly, coming from somewhere above him. Through the eyes of Juan Carlos, Baalzaric observed the swirling dance above the priest’s head. Juan Carlos spoke again, his voice dark and menacing, “Your sin, priest. We want to hear your confession.”
Father Miguel started to tremble and Juan Carlos fixed the priest with a soul-piercing stare.
“Speak Your sin, you filthy cleric,” Juan Carlos commanded.
Father Miguel’s trembling became violent shaking. He collapsed to his knees. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“My God.”
“You have no God. By your own mouth you denied Him, to save yourself.”
Juan Carlos continued, “Before the great Aztec temple you gave your soul to Huizilopochtli. You denied your God in order to save your own miserable life. You committed the unpardonable sin, priest, and now you are damned.”
***
Tears burst from Father Miguel’s eyes, his body racked by deep, bitter sobs. The memory of his humiliation, back in 1521, burst into his mind like a flood of filthy, excrement-infected water.
He had accompanied a party of four priests, escorted by two dozen soldiers, when Aztec savages ambushed them. Those that the Aztecs had not outright killed were ritually executed in front of him.
He watched in horror as the Aztecs placed head after head on the tzompantli, the skull rack. They even put the heads of the Spaniards’ horses on the rack. Miraculously, they had spared his life. Or so he thought.
An Aztec priest pressed the edge of a blood-soaked knife against Father Miguel’s throat.
“Where is your God, priest?” The Aztec spoke in heavily accented Spanish. He looked around. “Call on him to come save you.”
Bloody heads with unseeing eyes mocked Father Miguel. Fear strangled his voice. He blinked as tears blurred his vision.
“Please,” he grunted. “Please don’t kill me.”
“Huizilopochtli will have mercy on whom he will have mercy,” the Aztec said. He raised his knife and shouted toward the sky. “Huizilopochtli will have mercy on whom he will have mercy.”
The people roared their approval.
“Bow to Huizilopochtli and worship him and you will live.”
All the people bowed down. So did Father Miguel.
When reinforcements sent by Cortez arrived, they slaughtered every Aztec at the temple. They discovered Father Miguel hiding in a ditch beneath a pile of rotting skulls. No one that knew Father Miguel had denied God remained alive, except God, Father Miguel himself, and the Devil.
***
Father Miguel’s anguish kept him on his knees, his face buried in his hands.
“Doomed, doomed,” he sobbed.
Baalzaric watched as the demons swirled downward and dove into the priest. One after another. A legion of foul, fallen angels took up residence in the broken cleric.
Father Miguel fell to his face and writhed on the floor. He ate dirt, spit it out, and ate some more. He crawled on his stomach toward the door making horrible, wounded animal noises. He staggered to his feet, tore his robes, and alternately shouted in Aztec and in Spanish while banging his fists on the door. The door opened and Father Miguel ran past a startled soldier.
Later, in the presence of Juan Carlos and the returned Cortez, the guard said that he was sure that Father Miguel actually flew down the dirt street, the priest’s feet not even t
ouching the ground. A search party, under Juan Carlos’ command, found Father Miguel’s naked body three days later, miles outside of the city. He had run himself to death.
After Father Miguel ran off, it had been easy for Juan Carlos to convince the soldiers that the priest had been the one who had been insane, or even possessed. Juan Carlos could afford to reward personal allegiance. Loyalty to the church was a fine thing, but many soldiers believed that money, not God, could change a poor soldier’s life.
Baalzaric smiled to himself again. Kat stirred, but did not wake up. Patience and control. That was the secret. Even the God-lovers preached patience and control.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The porch light came on as Jim stood on the veranda of Pedro de la Garza’s house. The front door opened wide and Jim looked briefly at Pedro, and then into the tiny, but neat, home. Damn, I thought my house was small.
Jim’s hand rested loosely on his forty-caliber, Beretta service pistol as his eyes scanned the room behind de la Garza. Jim knew of officers who were shot simply for knocking on the wrong door. He did not plan to be one of them. No other person was visible.
His attention went back to Pedro, who wore a worn T-shirt and boxer shorts. His arms and chest were muscular and he might easily have passed for a retired welterweight. He had no visible tattoos. He wore no earrings and had no facial piercings, something popular even with some older individuals who appeared to be trying to recapture their lost sense of youth. To Jim, they looked ridiculous.
Pedro was Hispanic, but probably not Mexican or Puerto Rican. He also didn’t look much like most of the Cubans Jim had met. He was aware that many Hispanics in Florida traced their roots directly back to Spain. Jim decided that Pedro de la Garza fit that profile.
“Mr. de la Garza, I’m Trooper Demore, from this morning’s accident?”
Pedro nodded.
“I know it’s late,” Jim continued, “but can I have a few minutes of your time, sir?”
Pedro stepped aside and gestured for Jim to enter.
“You will have to forgive my appearance, Trooper Demore,” Pedro said. “I do not get many visitors out here, and it is late.”
Jim stepped into the living room and looked around again. Compact and neat, it had an old, high-backed chair that sat near a wood-burning stove. The stove, while decorative, would have had little practical use in South Florida. A loveseat hugged the lower part of one wall where its low back pressed up against the sill of a front window. Across from the loveseat, a portable television sat on a cheap stand. Otherwise plain walls supported a few shelves.
On the wall above the television hung a framed picture of a soldier and a young woman sitting at a table outside a café. The picture looked as if it had been taken overseas, possibly somewhere in Europe. Although Jim had served in the Marines, he recognized the Army combat-unit patch on the soldier’s right sleeve. Jim had seen similar uniforms in pictures from his uncle’s service in Vietnam. Before he became a crazy, Pentecostal preacher-man.
Pedro looked to be about Uncle Jack’s age, old enough to have served in the late ‘60s or early ‘70s. Jim was sure that the soldier in the photo was Pedro. Glancing around the small living room, Jim saw another picture, a wedding picture, framed and sitting on a table next to a cigar box. The same soldier and girl stood next to each other and beamed their happiness. There was no evidence that the woman in the picture lived in this house.
“I was just having a bit of medicine and a cigar before going to bed. Do you smoke?”
Pedro stood next to the writing table that held the wedding photo and cigar box.
“Only when someone has a baby or gets married,” Jim replied.
Jim saw the bottle of whiskey sitting on the kitchen table. He understood Pedro’s reference to medicine. Out here, close to the glades, whiskey could disinfect a wound as easily as it could soothe a troubled or broken soul.
“I’ve got a few more questions about this morning. They won’t take long.”
Pedro walked around to his seat at the table and pointed toward a chair.
“Please, señior, sit down.”
Jim, realizing his hand still rested on his gun, relaxed a bit, pulled out the offered chair, and sat. He removed his hat, placed it on the chair beside him, then pulled his small notebook out of his shirt pocket and opened it.
Pedro picked up his cigar. A tiny ember at the end of the cigar indicated that it had not completely self-extinguished.
“Do you mind?” Pedro asked.
“Not at all, sir.” Jim smiled. “My father and uncle both smoked cigars, usually when trying to outdo each other with fishing stories. Of course, after Uncle Jack came back from Vietnam, he always lost. My dad said he’d had some kind of religious experience during the war and couldn’t bring himself to lie, even about fish.”
“Sí, Señior Demore. I understand. The war changed many soldiers. So has time, as you can see from the pictures.”
Jim nodded in agreement. He reached for the pen still stuck in his shirt pocket.
“Do you live here with your wife, Señior de la Garza?”
“No, Señior Demore. She is with the angels now.”
“I’m sorry,” Jim said.
An awkward moment passed, as Pedro poured a shot. He held up the glass.
“She has been gone from me for some time. We met in Spain when I was on leave from Germany. I wanted to visit my ancestral home. The army had sent me to Germany after I left Vietnam.”
Pedro drank the whiskey and picked up the cigar.
“We were married in Spain. I would ride the train from Germany to visit her before the wedding. She worked at a café.”
The smoke from the cigar floated up toward the ceiling. Pedro looked wistful.
“I impressed her with my Spanish. Of course, that was not difficult. My parents always spoke Spanish at home. My wife and I moved into this house after my father died. He left it to me but not much else.”
John nodded, and then looked at his notes.
“Mr. de la Garza, you said the car that passed you on the left was ‘fast, like a Porsche.’ Do you believe it was a Porsche?”
Pedro put the cigar to his lips again and thought for a moment. He released the smoke and shook his head, responding with an emphatic “No.”
When he spoke again, Pedro spoke slowly, taking his time.
“It was not a Porsche. Just fast like a Porsche.”
Jim looked at his notes.
“And you think it was red?”
Pedro nodded. The smoke from the cigar drifted up and away from the table. The aroma reminded Jim of going into the cigar stores in Ybor City with his dad and uncle. His uncle knew where to go to get the “special” cigars. The ones you were not supposed to buy, but everyone who could, did. It was the only law his uncle did not respect. Jim waited for Pedro to speak again. Pedro reminded him of a sadder, Spanish version of Uncle Jack.
“More like a Ferrari or Lamborghini, only with an American look, and it was red, but maybe not solid red. I don’t know. Red but with dark sides and maybe a dark stripe. El carruaje del Diablo.” Pedro puffed on the cigar. “The Devil’s carriage, and it was fast, wicked fast.”
Jim made a new note.
“Can you remember anything about the other driver? Anything at all?”
The cigar smoke continued its dance above the table. Jim found it strangely soothing, relaxing. His investigation had just started and there was already pressure from command. Jim remembered the governor calling Briggs “Jeff” at the awards ceremony. Just how close was Briggs to the governor?
“She went by so fast, Señior Demore.”
Jim was instantly alert again. “She? ‘She’ as in the car, or ‘she’ as in the driver?”
Pedro stared through the cigar smoke. “The driver.”
Once again, he spoke slowly and carefully. “The hands. On the steering wheel. I only got a glimpse, but I remember. The inside light was on. They were a lady’s hands.”
Jim
nodded. Pedro seemed sure, despite only getting a glance. Good info. Good decision to drive out to this godforsaken place tonight.
He made more notes and then looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. Tomorrow would be another long day. Jim closed the little notebook and put it back into his pocket.
Jim smiled at Pedro. The other driver may have been a woman, but women rarely street raced. Maybe there was more here than a little race down the interstate.
“Let me know if you think of anything else. It’s late and I know construction jobs start early.”
Jim picked up his hat and they both stood. He extended his hand across the table.
“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate your time and cooperation.”
Pedro shook Jim’s hand. His reply sounded genuine.
“It is my pleasure, Señior Demore.”
Pedro came around the table and walked Jim to the door. Jim glanced again at the picture on the wall above the television and then back at Pedro. Same eyes, except that the old man’s eyes were sad and the young Pedro looked gloriously happy. Yet, in the old man’s eyes, Jim saw something else. Something more. Hidden strength? Wisdom? Some kind of faith?
Jim was not sure, but he liked what he saw. Jim had only been an investigator for a few months now, but he knew that investigations sometimes lived or died on the strength of the character of the witnesses.
Pedro opened the door, allowing Jim to step out first. The nearby glades were abuzz with nighttime noises. The singsong sounds of cicadas and the buzzing of vicious, bloodsucking insects mingled with the distant cries and snarls of night hunters and their unfortunate prey. Darwin’s symphony. Survival of the fittest.
Jim walked down the steps and made his way to his car. Fine bits of crushed shell crunched under his shoes. Pedro stood on the porch and spoke above the noise.
“When I left the Army, I wanted to be a police officer.”
Jim nodded. It always amazed him when strangers shared their secrets.
Pedro continued, “My late wife said ‘no.’ It was too dangerous. I tried to tell her that just living was dangerous.”
The Demon Pool Page 8
