“This is federal property, sir. The public is not allowed in here.”
“My name is Pedro de la Garza.”
Pedro’s determined expression did not change or soften as he spoke. Pedro pointed at the placard on the pillars that had supported the original gate.
“And I know.”
Pedro’s declaration hung in the humid air. Bruce’s eyes started blinking. De la Garza? Shit.
“I know,” Pedro continued, “that it was your car that killed those people. The people in the Corvette. I saw your car. I saw the crash.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Bruce replied, almost shouting, “You have to leave. You can’t be here!”
Little beads of sweat formed on Bruce’s forehead. His puffed-up air of authority began to deflate. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Don’t panic.
“You are wrong, señior,” Pedro said. “I know. And I know something else.”
“You don’t know shit. Get out of here before I call the police.” Bruce’s hand came up with his cell phone. “I’m not kidding. I will have you arrested.”
“I know where you got the money, señior. I know how a government man could buy such a nice car. I know, and you know, and soon, the man will know,” Pedro threatened.
Bruce heard someone speak. “Think!” the voice told him.
De la Garza did not say it. Bruce looked around. No sign of Kevin.
He knows too much. Get him inside.
Voices, or thoughts?
The other one will take care of him.
Do it now.
Bruce wasn’t sure if he had heard something, or if stress and panic had pushed his mind to the breaking point. In reality, he decided, it didn’t matter. He needed to act. Now. Bruce put his cell phone away and pulled the gate key from his pocket. He tried to smile.
“Come in. We can talk about it.”
“Yes, we will talk, but not here. Not tonight.”
Pedro backed up to the door of his truck and opened it. His eyes looked beyond Bruce. Bruce turned and saw Kevin near the back of the house. Pedro took a matchbook out of his pocket and tossed it through the framework of the gate. Bruce caught it.
“Call me there. Tomorrow. Six p.m. If you do not call, I know a Highway Patrol officer who would like to know what I know.”
Pedro got into his truck and started the engine. He backed the truck out onto the highway. Kevin appeared next to Bruce. The low-slung gun belt made him look like some demonic, gun-toting elf from a low-budget horror movie.
Bruce reopened the gate, and he and demon-elf Kevin trotted toward Pedro’s truck. Something bright and metallic flashed in the elf’s hand. The gun. The big truck’s tires squealed as it launched down the road in an explosion of burning rubber and the roar of its big Hemi engine.
***
Kevin stopped at the road’s edge. Bruce stood next to him. Kevin aimed the raised pistol at the retreating truck and Bruce slapped his arm down. Kevin stepped back and pointed the weapon at Bruce.
“What the hell did you do that for, Clark?”
Kevin watched Bruce go into full blink mode. Bruce looked down at the book of matches in his hand.
“It’s Bruce, not Clark,” Bruce said as he put the matchbook in his pocket. “Put the gun away. She won’t like it if we screw this up.”
Kevin hesitated. He slowly lowered the weapon. He’s right. She won’t like it if we screw this up. She thinks I already screwed things up once. You’re lucky, Clark.
“Okay, Brucie. Whatever you say.”
Kevin put the gun back in its holster. A truce. For the moment, asshole.
He turned his back on Bruce, mumbling as he walked away.
“We got shit to do, Clark. Let’s go.”
***
Bruce followed Kevin without comment. Inside his head, he heard voices chattering. This time he was sure they were not his own thoughts, but actual voices. A dozen individual entities yammered inside his skull, mocking him. Amongst the throng, Bruce’s own thoughts carried little clout. His mind screamed out at them. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Whoever you are, shut up! You’re not helping.
A tiny moment of silence passed, and then a single voice whispered.
“Help her.”
More voices joined in.
“Help her.”
“Help her.”
“Help her.”
Bruce’s resolve softened as they hammered away. He pressed his palms against his temples. Maybe if he pressed hard enough he could shut them up.
“Help her.”
“Help her.”
“Help her, and we will help you.”
“Help her,” Bruce mumbled to himself. “Help her and she will help me. That’s the plan.”
Bruce followed Kevin to the van at the back of the house, and Kevin opened the van’s back doors.
“Give me a hand here, Clark.”
Bruce started to say something about his name when Kevin gave him another “screw you” look.
The voices in Bruce’s head kept reassuring him that he was doing the right thing cooperating with Kevin. But the voices hadn’t prepared him for what he saw in the back of Kevin’s van. His hands slid down the sides of his face until they cradled his chin. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh. shit.
Kevin pulled the trussed up and gagged Highway Patrol trooper toward the back of the van. The trooper tried to kick Kevin, but the demon-elf caught his legs and held them tight. The trooper struggled, but could not kick free. Kevin kept one arm wrapped around the trooper’s legs while he reached behind his back and retrieved an object from the waistband of his jeans. He jammed the object against the trooper’s thick neck. It was slightly larger than an electric razor. The trooper tried to pull away, his eyes wide and pleading.
“You be good now,” Kevin said. The trooper’s entire body repeatedly jerked.
“Oh shit,” was all Bruce managed.
“Shut up and help me,” Kevin ordered.
Kevin had pulled the trooper up into a sitting position revealing the naked dead girl hidden by the trooper’s bulk.
“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh. Holy. Shit,” Bruce said aloud, stuck like an old vinyl record. His eyes blinked rapidly.
“Come on. Grab this guy before he starts kicking again. If he kicks me in the ‘nads, I’m gonna electrocute his balls. Yours too.”
The voices shouted commands at Bruce. They were mean, nasty. Bruce wanted to tell them to shut up, but they were too loud. They overpowered his mind. His resolve shattered.
“Okay,” Bruce whispered, speaking more to the voices than to Kevin. “Okay,” he repeated. “Okay, okay, okay.”
The vinyl record was stuck again. The voices moderated their tone. They sounded almost gentle.
“She loves you Bruce.”
“Do it for her.”
“It’s okaaay.”
“It’s okaaay.”
“It’s okaaay.”
“It’s okay,” Bruce repeated. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”
In spite of their reassurance, somewhere deep, deep inside, Bruce knew it was definitely not okay.
Kidnapping cops. Naked, dead girls in a van. No, it was not okay. But Bruce was not in control anymore. The voices had control. Kat had control. Kevin had control and Bruce felt truly damned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
In the middle of a large room, Carl Johns sat tied to a chair. He was scared. Not the nervous, did-I-pass-my-finals scared, but the holy-shit-crap-in-my-pants-I’m-gonna-die kind of scared. But he was also pissed. Pissed at the little freak using a cell phone to record another humiliating video, and even more pissed at himself. His mind played back the stop that got him into this situation. He had been distracted, not focused on the job, and it had cost him. Cost him dearly.
Not a hint of daylight poked through the spaces between curtains and windows. The sun had fled and blackness embraced the world leaving Carl feeling as dark inside as the night outside. Probably, by now, his wife would have called the troop
headquarters, wondering if there had been some kind of emergency call. Maybe they had found his abandoned cruiser. The entire Florida Highway patrol went on alert when one of their own went missing. Carl wished for an FHP SWAT team to burst into the room, taking out the little freak and his fat, worthless companion.
As the little freak videoed him, Carl flexed his muscles, testing his bonds. They had tied him tight. But Carl forced himself to believe that he would either escape or be rescued. He gave the little freak the angriest, hate-filled look he could muster. Carl wanted nothing more than to get loose and break the dirtbag’s neck with his bare hands, but not until he had tased the little bastard three or four or twenty times. He wanted to see him piss and crap himself and cry for his momma. Carl tried to project his homicidal intent into the little freak’s skull as he wondered why the SWAT team was taking so damn long.
***
When Jim Demore received the text message on his cell phone, followed by the video, his first thought was that he was being punked. He knew a couple of guys that were big enough jerks to pull something like this. Despite the dark and tiny video, Jim saw that it was Carl Johns tied to the chair, and Carl was not someone to play along with this kind of crap. At least Jim didn’t think so. In Jim’s experience, Carl was not that particular type of flaming a-hole. Jim read the text message again and switched back to the video. Hell no. This is no stunt.
It was obvious that Carl Johns was in some kind of deep kimchi. The video showed him seated in a high-back chair that looked as if it came from another century. Carl had his feet and hands bound with more rope wrapped around his chest. He had a gag in his mouth and anger in his eyes. From the look on his face, whoever had tied him up needed to be praying that Carl would not get loose.
A hand holding a Taser came into the frame and pressed it against Carl’s neck. Carl’s eyes widened and the look of hatred intensified, but, now it was mixed with fear. Carl jerked. His head flopped forward and he twitched a little. After a moment, he raised his head. This time his eyes sent Jim a clear message: rescue me.
The text message that followed the video gave Jim only one option — meet with the kidnapper alone, or Carl would die. Jim had ten minutes to reply. He had used up seven trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Jim typed two words into his cell phone. Where? When? The reply flashed back.
“Soon,” the text read. “Only you. Anyone else, he dies.”
That was it. No other message followed. Who the hell would kidnap a Highway Patrol Trooper? And why Carl?
Carl was married, had kids, and lived on a cop’s salary. His wife worked, but they were far from rich. Jim knew Carl well enough to know that they did not even have any equity in their house. Not since the last real estate market crash. This was not about money. If it were about money, the call would have gone to Carl’s family. No, this was not about Carl. No one in his right mind would kidnap a Florida law enforcement officer, in full uniform, video the hostage, and threaten to kill him, unless he fully intended to carry out the threat. Cop’s intuition told Jim that this was about him. Carl was just the unlucky bastard who got stuck in the middle.
Jim made sure he had saved the video and text message. He absolutely believed they would kill Carl if he failed to cooperate, but he wanted at least one other person to know about the situation. Someone he trusted who could be a credible witness that believed the threat to Carl was real and imminent. That he had been unwilling to risk Carl’s life by involving other law enforcement. He called Saffi.
***
Saffi luxuriated in a hot, relaxing bath. Essential oils of lavender, chamomile, orange blossom, and melissa created a soothing atmosphere that Saffi hoped would soak away the stress and anxiety caused by school, work, and Jim Demore.
She took a deep breath, taking pleasure in the rich aroma and soft embrace of the hot water. Saffi closed her eyes and went on her way to a mental mini-vacation on an imaginary tropical beach populated by only herself and Jim Demore, when her cell phone rang. An ugly, intrusive sound, coming at exactly the wrong time. She reached for the phone, pausing for a second to wipe fragrant foam off her hands with a small towel.
One of the first lessons about forensic police work was that crime never took time off. So she always answered her phone. Seeing Jim Demore’s number on the phone’s caller ID pleasantly surprised her.
“Hi, Jim,” Saffi said. Her voice sanguine, she felt herself relax again. “I’m glad it’s you. I was afraid I was being called out.”
She let her free hand push the hot water around the tub. She surveyed the watery real estate, with its room for two, and smiled. If Jim and I were married...
“I need your help,” he said.
Her hand stopped stirring the water.
“What’s going on?”
“Can you meet me?” Jim asked.
“Now?” Goodbye, paradise.
“I can be at your place in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it twenty, okay?”
“Twenty minutes. See you there.”
Saffi disconnected the call and put the phone down. She lifted the lever controlling the drain plug and watched paradise swirl away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
As soon as Jim ended the call with Saffi, his phone rang. Pedro de la Garza’s number showed. Jim hesitated for a moment, but decided to take the call. De la Garza was not the kind of man who would call to engage in idle chatter.
“Trooper Demore,” Jim answered flatly.
He liked Pedro, but the situation with Carl left him with little enthusiasm for the Briggs case. Unlike Briggs, Carl was still alive.
“Señior Demore, it’s Pedro de la Garza.”
Even the sense of urgency in Pedro’s voice failed to move Jim from his ambivalence. Briggs was worm food. Carl still had a chance.
“Señior de la Garza, I’ve been pulled from the Briggs case.” Jim said it as a simple, matter-of-fact statement. “I’m away from my office, but I can call you later with the name and phone number of the new investigator.” Like that’s going to help anyone.
“Señior Demore...”
“Right now,” Jim replied, not waiting for Pedro to finish, “I have something else I am working on and I really need to get back to that.”
“Señior Demore,” Pedro continued, his voice firm and adamant, “I saw the Government Man’s car. I saw it today and I am sure it is the one that killed the two people. He was not the driver that night, but it was his car.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. de la Garza,” Jim tried to sound sympathetic, “but, like I said, that’s not really my case anymore. I can pass your information onto the new investigator. That’s all I can do now. I’m sorry.” Damn sorry.
“He is evil, Señior Demore,” Pedro replied. “He and his friend. They are like devils.”
“What friend? Was there a woman?”
“No, señior. No woman. Men. Two men. The Government Man, big, kind of fat, and his small companion. The small man had an evil look and a gun like yours.”
Jim knew that he should hang up, let Agent Joyce deal with it, but Pedro had sucked him in.
“What did the little man look like? How was he dressed?” What the hell. Maybe after the situation with Carl was resolved?
Jim could almost hear Pedro’s mind sorting through the details.
“He wore a leather belt,” Pedro continued. “It looked like the belt you wear, Señior Demore. Only it did not fit him so well. He was holding the gun in one hand and holding the belt up with the other.”
Jim had a thought and it quickly connected with his memory of the video on his phone.
“Señior de la Garza, give me just a second.”
Jim scrolled through the phone’s menu until he found the video function. His phone had only one video stored, Carl Johns tied up and being tased. Jim played the video and watched the small screen. The hand of Carl’s tormentor reached out and applied the Taser. It was not an FHP police model. Carl jerked and spasmed. The video pulled back and Jim hit
the pause button.
The frozen frame was dark, not very clear, but Jim could see well enough what was missing. Carl was not wearing his utility belt. No gun, no holster, nada. Did Bruce York and his companion kidnap Carl? And if they did, how? And for God’s sake, why? Why would an obviously successful, federal bureaucrat kidnap a Florida State Highway Patrol Trooper? That made no sense at all.
Carl was a big, powerful guy, who, to the best of Jim’s knowledge, had never lost a fight. Jim had sparred with Carl a few times, both as part of their training and just as friends. The man was a human tank. Bruce York was a human marshmallow and de la Garza had described his companion as a small man. How did they get the drop on Carl? And why? That was the twenty-million-dollar question. Jim closed the video and spoke to de la Garza.
“Where are you?” Jim asked.
“I am just west of the estate, Señior Demore,” Pedro said, “Those men are evil, Señior Demore. Possessed by devils. You may not believe it, señior, but es verdad. Veridico. I have a meeting with the Government Man. Tomorrow, six p.m., at the Pit Stop. Do you know it?”
Jim had no experience with supernatural devils, but he knew the human kind, and evil was evil, no matter what the source.
“We need to meet,” Jim said, “before tomorrow.”
“Sí, señior. Where?”
“I have a friend. She works at the crime lab in Ft. Myers. We’ll meet at her apartment.”
Jim gave Pedro the address and some directions.
“She’s expecting me. I’ll call her back and let her know to expect the both of us.”
“I will be there, señior.”
The call disconnected.
***
The night around Pedro’s truck was dark. The entire sky was a black hole that could suck the soul right out from the body. An overwhelming sense of gloom and malice, some malevolent and evil cloud, had descended upon the truck. A weight pressed into Pedro’s chest, making it hard to breathe.
He hit his high beams and drove toward Ft. Myers. The darkness surrounding the truck seemed to deaden his headlights. He reached into the center console and retrieved a compact disc, glanced at it, and put it back. He did this three more times until he had the right one.
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