The Demon Pool

by Richard B. Dwyer

  Jim could not help but smile. He was not too concerned with ghost stories, and he was sure the whiskey was having its effect on Pedro.

  “I’m well-armed, Señior de la Garza, and I don’t worry too much about gators. They have their place and I have mine. I do my best to stay out of theirs.”

  “My great-grandfather’s fortune was never found, at least not that anyone knows. That money would buy a lot of fine cigars and fine whiskey. And a very expensive car. Vaya con Dios, Señior Demore.”

  They shook hands again. Jim went down the porch stairs and got into his car. He drove slowly back toward the highway, through the darkening shrubs and tangled vines heavy with moss. He turned on his headlights before reaching the main road. Something oppressive, something heavy, weighed down his spirit. It was an uncomfortable feeling and it refused to leave him. Jim spent the rest of the drive to Tampa trying to shake it off. Probably the aftereffects of being blown up.

  At least that’s what he hoped.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Kat Connors chanted in front of the black candle. The chants were free-flowing, not controlled by any conscious thought, as she focused her mind on tonight’s plan. She would soon solve her problem with Jim Demore. If tonight’s plan somehow failed, she had prepared a red candle in a special way, mixing the oil with her own body fluids to create a powerful aphrodisiac.

  Demore had already demonstrated a weakness for her flesh. If she failed to remove him as a threat, then she would burn the red candle. Once seduced and morally compromised, she could use him to eliminate any future threats to her plans, without getting her own hands dirty. Demore would become another one of her growing clutch of love-zombies, a more macho, better-looking, but equally controlled, version of stupid Bruce, pathetic Robert and crazy Kevin.

  She smiled and her chants grew stronger. Hell, she could have dozens of love-zombies, other stupid men whom she would enchant, who would do anything for her. An army of love-zombies willing to do whatever she commanded. It sounded almost silly, but she had the power to make it real. Her knowledge and abilities had grown and were growing still. Enough even to impact the very course of human development. This was something completely new. Something almost incomprehensible. Something God-like. Not only was she able to read the most advanced texts and white papers on DNA, genetics, and cloning, she had incorporated advanced mathematics to integrate the stem cell research that AGT was doing with the problem of aging, cell deterioration, and human longevity.

  All of that reading had led Kat to another element of genetic science that AGT needed to explore. The idea that the mortogenic factor, death itself, somehow got passed on through some code locked within only the male DNA. In 1881, German evolutionary biologist Dr. Weismann wrote that one day, science would eliminate the mortogenic factor and preserve the physical constitution necessary for immortality. Apparently, Kat theorized, it had been Adam, not Eve, who had corrupted the gene pool. Figures. And it will be a woman— me — that fixes it. Permanently.

  She began to explore the mathematical probabilities of indefinitely recycling female fetal stem cells in conjunction with parthenogenesis, virgin conception through human cloning. Something inside her mind drove her to push the limits of her intellect. Drove her toward the prospect of a life of unlimited power, intertwined with unlimited longevity, spiced with unlimited pleasure. An enticing prospect.

  Kat’s chanting filled the room, as if the sound itself had weight and mass. She closed her eyes and imagined a world ruled by a magick-wielding goddess. Now, that was an enticing prospect.

  ***

  Yes, Baalzaric agreed, it is an enticing prospect. Although Kat had closed her eyes, Baalzaric could see his demonic legion coming in and out of Kat’s apartment. His ability to see existed on two levels. Physically, through the eyes of his host, and metaphysically, through his spirit eyes. The disembodied demons that floated, twisted, and scampered above Kat belonged to Baalzaric. They were his helpers. His spiritual army of influence and corruption.

  And they were anxious. Awaiting their next opportunity to inhabit any man or woman who willingly unlocked the door between the physical and the astral worlds. The only humans who seemed immune to possession were those fully owned by the enemy. Genuine, converted followers of the Nazarene appeared to be impervious to demon possession. However, that never stopped Lucifer’s minions from attempting to exert their demonic influence over those whose faith or fidelity faltered — even a little.

  Baalzaric kept his demon army well-informed and the demons knew about Jim Demore. Unless Kat’s current plan eliminated the threat Demore posed — and her attempts, thus far, had failed — the demons knew that Baalzaric, through Kat, would ensure that Demore became host to a multitude. After all, Demore had already demonstrated his weakness for beautiful flesh, and Demore would not be the first man who traded his soul for sexual delights. Under Baalzaric’s control, Kat would see to that.

  If Kat’s plan failed, he would have her burn the red candle. She would seduce Demore and make herself his ultimate sex goddess. She would incite a lust within him beyond the greatest of his adolescent fantasies. Demore would beg for her and she would give him what he begged for — and much, much more. Of course, that scenario assumed that Kat would not be successful with her present plan to neutralize him. Due to human fallibility, Baalzaric always planned for the worst.

  The prospect of Demore’s possession sent the demons around Baalzaric into a frenzy. But for Baalzaric, the true treasure was the promise of AGT’s research. The unpleasant truth for demons was that most humans, sometimes even the most ungodly ones, were not readily open to possession. In spite of the loose morals of the current age, most of Baalzaric’s kindred spirits never experienced the joys and pleasures of physical sex and violence. But now it appeared that Kat had handed him the key to solving the demon’s two primary problems — having enough humans ready and available for possession, and preventing the host’s flesh from failing prematurely due to intense use, natural aging, and demonic defilement.

  Many believed that humans received their souls at conception, at the fusion of egg and sperm. Regardless of the exact timing or source, Baalzaric knew, unquestionably, that humans had souls.

  A demon, given the opportunity, could override the human soul, even to the point of total control. However, once established, the body-soul connection could only be completely broken by death. But what would happen if cloning produced a soulless human being? Baalzaric believed that without conception, there could be no soul. What if science produced a fully functional human, capable of sexual desires, thoughts and feelings, minus the impediment of the soul? Minus any moral imperatives. A spiritually empty, completely amoral house of pleasure ready for demonic occupancy. It was a mind-bending concept. And Baalzaric knew that once he took Jim Demore out of the equation, Kat and AGT were the key to turning the concept into a demonic reality.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Jim arrived at the Midnight Oasis Gentleman’s Club at 10:55 p.m. He stayed in uniform and drove the Charger rather than showing up in plain clothes in a rental car.

  Various vehicles sprinkled the club’s parking lot. Midweek business at most strip clubs was rarely more than a handful of hard-core drinkers and the occasional stray looking for whatever substitute for a real relationship he could find in twenty-dollar lap dances. It was not the kind of joint that Jim would normally visit. He was a decent-looking guy and had never lacked for the attention of attractive women, and he certainly did not need the baggage — substance abuse, club drama, etcetera — that accompanied the average topless dancer.

  Jim parked the Charger in a space close to the driveway exit and a couple of rows away from any other cars. A Highway Patrol vehicle parked by the entrance might cause some passersby to draw the wrong conclusion.

  Many of the clubs were known to be accommodating toward off-duty police officers. They just flashed their “gold card” — officer’s badge — to the doorman and it was VIP treatment all the way.
Controlling their harems of dancers, their drunken customers, and their frequent associations with organized crime kept them busy enough. Smart club owners treated cops like royalty as long as they were willing to be just another customer.

  The club’s doorman sat outside on a wood stool next to the entrance. Mötley Crüe blasted through the open front door, pumping alcohol, cigarette smoke, and perfume-laden air out with it. “Girls, Girls, Girls” celebrating raunchy, glam rock lust.

  As Jim approached the entrance, the doorman stood blocking it. He was two to three inches taller than Jim and must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. Jim smiled while he worked on a takedown strategy. Fortunately, it remained a mental drill.

  “Good evening, officer,” the doorman said.

  His deep voice reasonably friendly and supremely confident. His face displayed a well-practiced semblance of a sincere smile.

  “Good evening,” Jim said, returning the big man’s smile as the last strains of the song faded out.

  “I was told to ask for Kat.”

  A new song tore through the club. Even outside, the doorman had to raise his voice.

  “I hope she’s not in trouble.” The doorman’s smile hardly moved as he spoke. “She’s one of the few girls here who has a real job. She could quit this dump anytime she wanted.”

  Jim took his notebook from his shirt pocket. He made a notation to check on Kat’s other job. The doorman winced as if realizing he’d let his mouth run more than he should have. Jim pulled a copy of the Viper’s photo from his shirt pocket.

  “Ever see this car here.”

  The doorman looked at the photo. His expression did not change after he glanced at the Viper, but Jim had seen a momentary flash of what may have been recognition in the doorman’s eyes.

  “We don’t see cars like that here,” the doorman said. “Try that Venus place over on Dale Mabry Boulevard. They go total nude over there and get their share of high rollers. We get mostly local guys. Businessmen, a few military types, and some red necks. Ain’t no rich boy cars parked here.”

  “No, I guess not,” Jim replied.

  Jim put the notebook and photo back in his pocket. Despite the doorman’s seeming sincerity, Jim believed he was lying. Before the conversation went any further, Kat appeared at the door.

  “Good evening, Trooper Demore.”

  She looked fresh from a South Beach beauty contest.

  “Mikey, go ahead and let Trooper Demore in.”

  “All right, Kat.”

  Mikey, the giant doorman, stepped aside, once again smiling his frozen smile.

  “Go right ahead, Trooper Demore. Looks like you done hit the lottery tonight. It ain’t often that someone gets in as Kat’s special guest. Matter of fact, I can’t remember it ever happening.”

  Jim nodded at Mikey and stepped into the club. Kat took his hand and led him to the empty bar. Jim knew he should pull his hand back, but Kat’s touch grabbed him like a live electric wire.

  The few customers in the club sat close to the main stage. A buxom redhead in a turquoise babydoll held their attention. Jim sat on a stool at the bar. A couple of customers had followed his entrance with nervous glances. Alcohol, the Highway Patrol, and the desire to drive one’s car home were not exactly a winning combination for a fun night out. Nonetheless, their attention quickly returned to the main stage when the redhead pulled down her top. Jim could not resist a quick glance.

  “She gets a lot of attention, but she doesn’t really like men,” Kat told him.

  Jim’s face heated up as he focused his attention on Kat.

  “So, has York ever let you drive the Viper?” Jim asked, not waiting for her to reveal why she had asked him to the club. He watched her eyes.

  “He took me for a ride in it once or twice. It’s a nice car,” Kat said. Her eyes gave him no clues.

  “He ever bring it here?”

  A new song began playing. Slower, softer. The redhead’s movements matched the music. Slower, softer.

  “Yes, he did. Once. Right after he first got it. I think he wanted to impress me. Men are always trying to impress me.”

  She said it with the simple truthfulness of a child telling her mother “the sky is blue” on a clear, sunny day. Her eyes stayed locked on Jim. Something about her eyes. As if I’m looking at two different people staring back from a single set of eyes.

  A creepy, uncomfortable effect.

  “Would you like a drink or something?” Kat asked.

  She broke eye contact and looked past Jim to the bartender.

  “Tony,” she said, her voice barely carrying over the music. A new song boomed from the speakers.

  “The girl’s so dope, she makes me high!”

  The lead singer belted the words out. The redhead on stage displayed a wicked smile that acknowledged her oneness with the song.

  “I could love her all night if she’d let me inside.”

  She returned to a high-energy bump and grind.

  “Get the officer something to drink. Something diet. No alcohol,” Kat ordered.

  Kat turned back to Jim, reestablishing eye contact. The song’s chorus rolled over them.

  “She’s a spinnin’ wheel on a midnight ride.”

  Jim felt the heat of her stare as if he had become some laboratory specimen; an oddity to be examined and evaluated. As a diversion, he pulled out his wallet, breaking eye contact again, and put a five-dollar bill on the bar. Tony tossed a coaster down in front of Jim and placed a glass of diet cola on it. He walked away without picking up the cash. Jim lifted the glass and held it for a moment, swirling the ice cubes.

  “What would you like, Trooper Demore?” Kat asked. She used his correct title, Trooper, not Officer. “We have a lot to offer here.”

  Jim did not miss the double meaning. Kat watched the dancer for a moment and then looked back at him. A rock ballad began with a slower, softer melody. The redhead danced in a sensuous, syncopated rhythm choreographed to the music and to the singer’s mournful voice.

  “I want to feel your fire, want to feel the heat.”

  The redhead arched her back until her shoulders touched the floor. She moved her hips up and down to the music.

  “Burning inside me. Burning inside me.”

  “Give me a pink daiquiri, Tony.” Kat ordered without taking her eyes off Jim.

  “I thought you had some information for me,” Jim said, impatience creeping into his voice.

  Tony returned with Kat’s drink. She took it from him and raised it toward Jim.

  “I have something for you,” Kat replied and clinked her glass against his, “but first, it’s my turn to dance.”

  She killed half the daiquiri in one pull and put the glass on the bar. The redhead’s last song faded out and she grabbed her discarded babydoll and headed off the stage.

  Jim looked at his diet cola and took a long pull himself. His throat felt like it did when he was over in the big sandbox, southwest of Baghdad, right before crossing the line of departure — the imaginary line on the ground where at any moment the shit could hit the fan.

  “I can’t be here much longer,” Jim said, looking at his watch.

  Kat smiled warmly, but her eyes inspected him like he was some rare specimen.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be long.”

  Jim watched Kat stroll toward the stage and mount the platform. Her perfect, athletic body made the redhead look like a cow. The music started and Kat turned, strutting toward the pole at the center of the stage. The driving beat of Love/Hate’s Spinning Wheel slapped the sour air. The lead singer’s raspy, hard rock vocals began as she reached the pole.

  Kat gyrated to the music. The song’s lyrics providing a perfect complement to Kat’s dance. She took off her shirt, took off her pants. The lighting in the club dimmed, got brighter, and dimmed again.

  Jim’s throat had dried out like ancient parchment. He took another long drink from the cola before he realized his mistake. He tried to put the glass on the
bar, but it fell from his fingers, crashing to the floor. The song continued — a stripper’s anthem — the lead singer asking to see her nakedness. To see all.

  Jim stared at Kat as she danced. He felt paralyzed, sitting perfectly still, eyes wide open, vaguely aware of the music. For a moment, he thought he had nodded off. Kat had stripped off her bra — her wardrobe now nothing more than a pink, micro teardrop G-string. The guys at the stage were holding up paper bills.

  The scene changed.

  The song continued.

  The scene changed again.

  Kat sat in front of him, now dressed.

  Then the lights went out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  It had not taken much effort on Kat’s part to get a couple of club employees to go along with her plan. She did not even have to offer to sleep with anyone. She had discovered that Tony the bartender, some of the dancers, and a couple of the managers were members of what she thought of as her “special shadow club.” The influence she had over the people these wraiths inhabited surprised her. They all expressed their eagerness to help. She now believed that something beyond simple candle magick fueled her new power. She had tapped into some deeper element of the metaphysical. Advantage, Kat.

  Demore had worn his uniform to the club, which, for some reason, made her think of Dudley Do-Right from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons she watched as a child. Even though she had caught him sneaking a peek while at Bruce’s, Demore did not seem to have the level of interest in her that most men had. Maybe he doesn’t really like girls, or maybe he’s one of those born-again types. She considered those possibilities, but her plan rendered them moot.

  Once Demore entered the club, Kat knew that in a minute or two after getting his virgin drink, Demore would be screwed. Tony had practically bragged how he had perfected his special mix — a powerful blend of counterfeit Rohypnol and another drug he kept secret.