“...but he doesn’t believe that the Highway Patrol has a handle on this one.”
Jim knew he should at least try to remind himself not to take anything from the job personally. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
“I’ve got a handle on it,” Jim told Joyce.
No way he would roll over and give it away.
“Jim,” Major Kant interjected, “that doesn’t matter.” Her voice was firm, but kind. “The decision is out of our hands. Agent Joyce will need everything you have. I’ve promised the director’s office we would cooperate in every way possible.”
Jim started to protest again. Total bullshit.
Major Kant put up her hand in a gesture that gave Jim no reason to believe that his arguments would win and her expression reinforced it. He could not remember when, as an adult, he had been as pissed off and humiliated. The older, longer-serving troopers who had been passed over when he had been promoted would love this. Bill Joyce stood.
“I have a lot to do, major.”
He extended his hand toward Major Kant. She shook his hand, polite and perfunctory.
“I expect to see all of the files on this case no later than tomorrow.”
Smugness returned to Joyce’s face. He looked the way Jim’s third-grade teacher had when he had told Jim’s mother that her son “was a little slow.”
Jim watched Joyce leave the office and felt that old stubbornness welling up inside. The same feeling he had when his third-grade teacher told him to stand in the corner with his nose against the wall because of some imagined infraction. Jim told the pinch-faced teacher “no.” If he had been a couple of years older, he would have said “hell no.”
It took a school police officer and two teachers to break Jim’s grip on his chair and get him out of his seat. They sent him to see the principal and the school psychologist. They could do many things to punish him, but they could never make him stand in the corner again for something he did not do.
“You’re off the investigation, Jim. Let it go.” Major Kant’s voice was firm. “Let’s just get back to our jobs.”
Jim Demore, go stand in the corner! That’s what they were telling him. Hell no.
He stood, said “Yes, ma’am,” and turned to leave.
“I’m serious, Jim.” Major Kant’s voice followed him. “The Department of Law Enforcement wants this all to themselves now. Let them have it.”
He glanced back. His voice somber.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jim closed the door behind him as he left the office. In his head, he heard his own third-grade voice. You can’t make me.
He was all grown up and people were still telling him to stand in the corner. Not just no, but hell no.
His hands closed into fists as he walked through the outer office. His muscles tensed. He could almost feel the cold metal of his third-grade chair against his fingers. Yes, I will give Joyce a complete set of the case files. Right after I make an extra copy for myself.
He went to his office and closed the door. Realistically, no one in the Highway Patrol, at least no one who was not a brown-nosed office pogue, would expect him to roll over and hand his case off to Joyce. He did not believe for a second that Joyce would pick up on the unusual elements of this case. The possibly supernatural elements. Jim wasn’t even sure himself that a connection existed to some demonic or occult world. After all, when it came to the supernatural, to religious mumbo jumbo, skepticism had always ruled his mind. Yet, this case seemed to be infected with something extra. Something weird. Would Joyce even have a clue?
Regardless, Jim owned this case, and the director, Joyce, and the devil himself could kiss his derriere. He wouldn’t stand in the damn corner for anyone. Hell no.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
It had been more than ten years since Pedro de la Garza had last visited the old family estate. His conversations with the Highway Patrol trooper had triggered a deep-seated sense of family pride and personal outrage at the way his father’s claim on the property had been so callously disregarded by the government.
His crew had finished their work early that day, but for the first time in several years, his melancholic temperament did not drive him to the Pit Stop, his usual after work drinking establishment. Instead, he pointed his pickup truck toward Ft. Myers. Dark wasn’t for another couple of hours. He would visit the old estate. He would think with a clear brain, without the cloud of alcohol that usually preceded his passage into the darker places of mind and memory.
Good Tejano music boomed from the truck’s stereo system. It was one of the few things that could lift Pedro’s spirits. He had first experienced the unique sounds of Tejano, or Tex-Mex as some called it, on liberty in Saigon. In a bizarre little drinking establishment that catered to Mexican-American soldiers.
Many of the soldiers he met there were on R&R, rest and recuperation, from the Củ Chi tunnels, the vast Vietcong tunnel complex seventy kilometers northwest of Saigon. These were men of small stature, but enormous courage, that would enter a Vietcong tunnel armed only with a gun, knife and flashlight. Even the Vietnamese bargirls, half of whom were probably Vietcong themselves, treated these soldiers with respect. Although Pedro was not Mexican, he felt comfortable with the Spanish-speaking soldiers with whom he shared misery, loneliness, and Tejano music.
A few years after he had left the service, Tejano had made its way to Immokalee, Florida. The Tex-Mex sounds had resonated with the mostly Mexican agricultural workers who flooded the region that bordered the Everglades, southeast of Ft. Myers. As the years passed, he found it easier to find Tejano records, then eight-track and cassette tapes, and finally, modern CDs. Technology had changed rapidly over the years, but both Pedro and his favorite music had remained much the same.
At Ft. Myers, he left the interstate and snaked his way past tourist traps, cheap hotels, and tornado-magnet trailer parks. As he drove east, away from the city, he thought about his conversations with Trooper Demore. The man who owned the Viper was a government man and had some interest in or connection to the estate, which the government owned. The Government Man drove a very nice car, much nicer than one would expect. The thought struck like lightning. The bastardo with the Viper found Great-grandfather’s money.
That was his thought when the red and black Dodge Viper flew past him. Pedro hardly believed it. His mind flashed back to the night of the accident, and now he was sure that it was the same damn car. It was not a woman driving it this time, though. Has to be the Government Man.
Without thinking about it, he knew where the Government Man was going. He pushed the truck’s accelerator all the way to the floor. The big, three-quarter-ton Dodge responded with a jolt of acceleration. From the factory, the Hemi V-8 engine put out three-hundred eighty-three horsepower, but Pedro did not have much he needed to spend money on — whiskey, decent cigars, and his truck. So he had upgraded it to a Mustang- and Camaro-eating monster. He pushed it down the highway, chasing the Viper for all it was worth. Like a dog chasing a car, he would figure out what to do with it when he caught it.
***
Bruce had mixed feelings about heading back to the de la Garza estate. He had been damn careful about not bringing attention to the almost-forgotten South Florida property. The meticulous, some would say anal, way that he handled his responsibilities as a federal property manager had led him to discover de la Garza’s secret. The wealth he found hidden on the estate had more than made up for his otherwise sucky life. That would all be at risk, unless he quickly resolved the situation between Kat and the Highway Patrol. He couldn’t afford to have anyone poking into his life and possibly his finances. Bruce found it hard to believe that someone could be as lucky as Demore had been in the past couple of days.
As the Viper rocketed toward the estate, Bruce examined his feelings for Kat. They were a tangled mess. On one hand, he needed to protect himself. Yet, he had an almost overwhelming urge to protect her, even if it meant sacrificing himself. Then there was the sex. Kat was like
nothing he had ever experienced. Even the nasty little penetration trick she pulled on him last time they were together didn’t seem to bother him. The pleasure turned out to be much greater than the initial surprise.
He did hope that Kat would find some way to eliminate Trooper Demore. Explosions and extortion had not worked and his own hastily contrived plan now seemed weak and pathetic. Maybe she could get him alone and shove something up HIS ass. Something with a trigger. Something powerful enough to tear through everything in between and blow the top of his head off.
Bruce snickered aloud at the thought of Demore’s head exploding into a million pieces. Cop brains everywhere. For a moment, he thought he heard other voices laughing, too.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Pedro did not have a plan, but he knew from his experience in Vietnam that plans were often over rated. Military people knew that few plans survived first contact. For Pedro, first contact came when he saw the Viper speed by.
He backed off the truck’s accelerator as he closed on the Viper. He doubted that the Government Man had any idea someone was following him. That gave him a temporary advantage. He also knew that the government had built a fence around the estate with a locked gate at the entrance. The Government Man would have to get out of his vehicle to unlock the gate. Pedro would initially drive past, giving the Government Man enough time to get the gate unlocked. Then he would turn the truck around and power through the gate before the Government Man could close it again. It was a simple plan.
No buildings, gas stations, or fruit stands stood near the de la Garza property. Unlike the Southwest Florida winter estates of Ford and Edison, the de la Garza estate hid in its obscurity. It sat on a lonely stretch of Florida highway between Ft. Myers and Lake Okeechobee. Salty’s Shrimp Shack, the closest structure, sat six miles to the west. The estate’s remoteness made his childhood story of Tank the alligator even more remarkable. How could such a large animal move between the pool at de la Garza’s and the nearest community without being found and caught or killed?
Pedro thought that possibly an underground stream or river had allowed the giant beast quick access to more populated areas. He did not know how long alligators lived, but he had no desire to go anywhere near the pool. Unless, of course, Great-grandfather had hidden some of his wealth there. Maybe the Government Man hadn’t discovered it all.
Pedro made an instant and irrevocable decision. Now that he had an idea where the money was, he decided that nothing, not even Tank, would stop him from getting what the government had stolen from his family. Not even the devil himself would keep him from reclaiming what should be rightfully his. It would be better to die fighting to reclaim his heritage than to continue living in the pathos of loneliness, regret, and misery.
Besides, the Government Man was a thief. What would he do when Pedro confronted him? Call the police? While Pedro knew that the government itself would never let him have Great-grandfather’s wealth without an expensive fight in the courts, the Government Man had no choice. It would be either give Pedro his rightful share or go to jail. For once in his life, Pedro felt like he was holding all of the aces.
***
Bruce barely noticed the big Ram pickup when it passed the gates of the de la Garza estate. He was too busy trying to get the gate open. He wanted the Viper out of sight. He didn’t know who would meet him here, but he knew that he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to the Viper or himself.
He finally had the life he wanted. Yet, something did not track. He knew the problem between Kat and the Highway Patrol had the potential to kill everything he had gained, but, even away from her, he felt her influence. Something tethered him to Kat. Something more than the sex.
He struggled with the heavy security lock, twisting the key back and forth until finally pulling it open. He yanked the chain from one side of the gate and slid the lock through the end links, securing the chain to the gate post. He pushed the gate open and went back to the Viper.
He was sure Kat’s influence had nothing to do with drugs. No drug he could think of would last this long, assuming she had somehow slipped him something. While sitting in the club talking to her on the phone, he had felt ballsy, willing to challenge her, ready to take his place as the alpha male. Now, doubt flooded his mind, metaphorically squeezing his testicles. What has she done? Not drugs. Not just sex. Something else.
He drove the Viper through the gate and around to the back of the estate. He parked the Viper out of sight and walked back toward the gate.
He had once watched a show on cable where they had investigated the making of human zombies. It showed how Voodoo practitioners used puffer fish poison to destroy part of a person’s brain. Once administered, the victim’s respiration and heart would slow to the point that they looked dead. After burial, the practitioner would dig the victim up, and the victim would then be a zombie slave. Bruce doubted he had been puffer fish poisoned. He could account for every moment of every day since his first romp with Kat. It has to be something else.
Besides, he did not believe in voodoo, witchcraft, or any of that occult crap. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that Kat had done something to him. Of course, she had done something to him when they had made love at his house after Trooper Pain-in-the-ass had left. She had violated him with a candle and he had experienced the most powerful release of his life. She had done something unnatural and his body had betrayed him with intense pleasure.
By the time he reached the gate, a van turned off the highway and entered the estate. Without thinking, he raised his hand to tell the driver to turn around. A voice shouted, “No!” He glanced around looking for the source, thinking the voice must have come from someone standing nearby. He saw no one. Except for the driver of the van, he was alone. He turned his attention back to the van.
The driver pulled up and stopped right in front of him. He wondered if the “no” he had heard came from an actual voice, or if his subconscious recognized that the van’s driver was the person sent by Kat and should be allowed onto the estate. Since the crazy sex, he not only had to deal with his feelings of being violated with the candle and the pleasure it brought, but also with a cornucopia of voices, or maybe just wild thoughts, stomping around in his brain. Something had changed and he didn’t know if it was good or bad. If it caused him to lose everything, definitely bad.
He watched a peculiar little man exit the van. Instant dislike pushed everything else aside and Bruce wondered if he had it in himself to actually kill another human being. After all, that had been the reason for inviting Trooper Demore to the estate. To somehow kill him and toss his carcass into the pool. As he pondered the thought, Bruce looked at the man and his mind responded with a resounding chorus — yes.
***
Kevin stepped out of the van feeling like the king of the world. He was wearing Carl Johns’ utility belt and gun. He had fastened the belt’s buckle at the last hole, but it still hung too low on his skinny hips. He kept tugging at it as he walked toward Bruce. He stared at the overweight, bespectacled man standing in front of him. Hate at first sight.
The man reminded him of his father, and he hated his father. Hated his filthy, booze-soaked guts. His father was a big-prick-bastard who always said that his runt son would never succeed at anything, and even though the man in front of him was not as big as his father, he had the same goofy, Clark-Kent-after-fifty look. Nevertheless, Kevin would do what Kat said, even if it took all of his willpower not to kick the guy in his ‘nads.
“We’ve got to unload something. Some things.” Kevin corrected. “Probably not a good idea to do it out here.”
The man stood there, staring at him. Blinking.
“Uh, sometime today, Clark.”
The name “Clark” just slipped out.
“My name is Bruce.”
The guy’s eyes kept blinking at him. Real piece of work you found there, Kat.
“Follow the tire tracks,” Bruce told him. “Around back. Next to my car.”
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say, Bruce,” Kevin finally replied.
Kevin got back into the van, shifted the transmission into drive, and slapped the accelerator with his foot. Bruce jumped back to keep from being sideswiped by the van. Kevin glared at Bruce as the van dashed past. He smiled his best “screw you” smile. I’m playing for keeps, Clark. Better watch your ass.
***
Bruce watched Kevin race the van past the huge house and around back. Bruce listened for the grinding of metal against metal, but the crunch of tires rolling across crushed shells stopped and the engine died. A door opened, then slammed shut, followed by the sound of footsteps. It did not appear that the ugly little freak driving the van had left a ding on his Viper. Oh, yes, Bruce decided. It would not be too difficult to kill another human being. Not too difficult at all.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Bruce threaded the chain through the gate and the gate post. He needed to finish whatever Kat had for him to do and get the hell away from the estate, and from Kat’s little sycophant freak. As he snapped the lock shut, a big Dodge truck turned off the highway and roared up to the gate. A sixty-something Hispanic man stared at him through the truck’s windshield.
The man killed the engine and got out of the truck. Determination flashed laser-like from the man’s brown eyes. Something else resided there too. Bruce worked every day around military personnel. He knew the look of someone who had taken human life. The Hispanic man had that look, but Bruce also saw that he was empty-handed. The locked gate provided Bruce a modicum of safety. He puffed himself up and put on his best I’m-in-charge-here face.
The Demon Pool Page 25
