Was she having him watched? Jim stood and looked out the door’s peephole again.
Kat continued, “And you are the group skeptic. But, that’s okay.” She sounded as if she was reassuring him. “Some truths we have to learn for ourselves. You do care about truth, don’t you?” she mocked.
Jim felt a strong urge to reach through the phone, grab her by the throat, and squeeze until her eyes rolled up into her head. The way Marine drill instructors used to do to wayward recruits. Old school. Of course, in today’s politically correct, estrogen-washed military, that would be the end of a DI’s career. Jim had an appreciation for old school. Old school worked, even if it was not pretty. However, political correctness had inflated its price. Few people could afford old school today.
“I care about taking criminals and their asshole associates off the street,” Jim replied, surprised at his own use of vulgarity. He was tired of all the crap. If his sentiment registered with Kat, her voice did not reveal it.
“It must feel so good to care, Jim.” Kat said. She continued, “Do you care about your friend? I understand he’s not doing well.”
Jim’s mind replayed the video of someone zapping Carl Johns with a Taser.
“What the hell kind of people are you?” Jim asked, almost shouting
Pedro mouthed the words malo, muy malo and crossed himself again. Unmistakable resolve and coldness crept into Jim’s voice.
“You know, Ms. Connors, Florida executes its premeditated murderers.”
“Yes it does, when it can bring them to trial and convict them,” Kat replied. “I can help you, Jim, if you let me.”
Jim snorted.
“I’m not the one looking at a needle in the arm, Ms. Connors. You need to help yourself.”
Kat laughed.
“My whole life has been about helping myself. I’m good at it. They will kill him. If you want to help him, you need my help. You need to meet with me.”
Jim wanted to throw the phone against the wall. Despite the insanity, the blatant stupidity of what York and his companion had done, Jim did believe her. He had Carl’s life in his hands. How he handled this would determine Carl’s fate. Jim kept his answer simple.
“Where?”
“Ask your little brown friend. The Spanish guy. He knows. And Jim,” Kat continued, “Come alone. Bring anybody else, call anybody else, and the cop dies.”
Jim heard assured finality in Kat’s voice.
“Your friend’s life is in your hands,” she said. “You get to be God.”
Jim did not want to be God, or Allah, or Buddha, or anyone else. He wanted to be a good cop, and these bastards were doing their best to take that from him. They damn well might be able to kill him, he was willing to face that possibility, but he was not willing to stop being a good cop. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He could at least keep Saffi and Pedro out of the crap soup he had fallen into.
“When?” he asked.
“Tomorrow night. At midnight. Not a second past.”
“I’ll be there,” Jim replied. It was Jim’s turn to pause for effect. “And if Carl isn’t alive, you and your friends won’t be either.”
“Poor Jim,” Kat replied. “You want to be in control, but you’re not. Be there, or your friend dies.”
The phone went dead. Jim stared at it for a moment, closed it, and put it away.
“What are we going to do?” Saffi asked.
“We are going to get some rest,” Jim told her. “Tomorrow I have some things to do.”
“Señior Demore?” Pedro asked.
Jim leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, not ignoring Pedro, just taking a moment to gather his thoughts, tamp down his personal feelings.
“Señior Demore?” Pedro asked again.
Jim opened his eyes.
“Let us help you,” Pedro said.
His voice carried no heroics. Simply the sincere petition of a friend. All Jim could tell him was an equally simple truth.
“I can’t. It’s not my choice. I don’t know exactly what’s behind all this, some occult force or just bad people, but she was clear. Come alone or Carl dies.” Jim looked at Pedro. “Thank you, but I can’t take chances with Carl’s life, or yours.”
“But you’ll take chances with your life?” Saffi said. Fire built in her eyes.
“If I don’t go alone, Carl is a dead man,” Jim said. “Do you want that on your hands?”
He looked at Pedro, but Pedro said nothing. He looked back at Saffi. He saw her anger, almost to tears.
“No,” she answered, her frustration reflected in her voice. “I don’t want anyone’s death on my hands, but you need back up. What makes you think they won’t immediately kill you? What good is it if you’re dead?”
“No good at all,” he said. “But, that doesn’t matter now. Look, I have a little over twenty-four hours until I have to meet them.” Calm had returned to his voice. “Let’s get some rest and I’ll see what I can come up with tomorrow. Okay?”
Pedro nodded his head as he spoke. “Si, Señior Demore. Mañana. Mañana es bueno, but the evil is still out there.”
“I don’t have a spare bedroom,” Saffi told them, “but the sofa is comfortable.” She pointed at Pedro’s chair, “and your chair folds down into a small futon sleeper. Sometimes, a couple of the girls in my study group sleepover. They’ve never complained.”
Pedro looked relieved.
“So, you make all the guys go home?” Jim asked.
She looked serious as she stood.
“Oh, yes, I do. But not tonight. I’ll get you guys some pillows and blankets.”
Jim watched her disappear down the short hall and into what he assumed was her bedroom. Jim suddenly realized that he wanted to know what Saffi’s bedroom looked like. Not for the usual testosterone-on-patrol reasons. The first time he had seen Linda’s bedroom he had been impressed. Ultra-contemporary, full of high-end art deco. It was Linda.
It would be interesting to know what Saffi’s bedroom said about her. Maybe instead of art deco, it was full of mementos from some junior CSI, summer bug camp. Jim wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone who was not only pretty, but actually smarter than he was. He wondered if he would live to have a chance to find out.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Kat needed to do a couple of things before dealing with Jim Demore. Postponing their confrontation another day added some risk, but she could plan for that. She needed to eliminate the threat the witness, de la Garza, posed. That would have to happen fast. She also needed to make sure she had control of her not-so-dynamic duo, Bruce and Kevin. She could not trust those two morons not to screw everything up.
A steady stream of information flowed to her from whatever supernatural source of power she had tapped into, and information equaled power.
It was surreal how she had gone from simply trying to survive to having gained control of some powerful source of magick. Freaking amazing, but also dangerous. Not that she was afraid of the growing power inside of her. It was that her control over others was not as strong as she wanted it to be. She needed to think like a chess player.
Greasy Robert Greer had been a chess player. And an asshole. And a child rapist. Nevertheless, he had taught Kat to play chess and she played well. She needed to put those skills to work now. Greer had told her that good players thought three to five moves ahead. By the time he had left, Kat had become a very good player. She had learned to live her life six moves ahead of everyone else.
Kat dialed Bruce’s cell phone. He answered on the first ring.
“I don’t like any of this,” Bruce said.
“That doesn’t matter anymore,” Kat replied. “Not if you want to keep all of your toys and be free to enjoy them.”
It was the most blatant threat that Kat had made to him. She waited for Bruce to protest. He did not disappoint her.
“For God’s sake, Kat, I love you, but this is crazy. We are all going to end up in jail, probably forever.”
Kat waited for Bruce to ask the obvious. Once again, he did not disappoint her.
“What do I need to understand? That you got me mixed up in a kidnapping? That we probably have to kill a state police officer? You know there is no way we can let him go, and we’ll have to kill the other one too if he shows up. I didn’t ask for this Kat. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Oh yes you can,” Kat said. “Because if you don’t, you’ll lose it all. The money, the house, the car, me. Then you get to spend every night for rest of your life wondering whose prison bitch you’re going to be.”
“You’re the devil,” he told her.
“Not quite, Bruce.” Kat laughed, but something dark and humorless colored her voice. “Lucifer would not be nearly so kind to you.” She let that thought sink in for a moment, and then continued. “It is too late to do anything except what I tell you. It will be over soon.” Definitely over for you, Brucie-boy.
“God, Kat. I just want things to be back the way they were.”
“God has never been part of this deal, but you are. Now, if you don’t screw things up, I promise there will be one hell of a prize at the end.” First prize, Brucie. A ticket straight to hell.
“I just want things to go back to the way they were,” he continued to whine. “Can we do that Kat? Just make things the way they were.”
“Bruce, I promise you. When this is over, everything will be better than it was. Okay?” For me, anyway.
“Okay,” Bruce agreed, “but, what about him.”
Kat knew that he meant Kevin.
“I will take care of everything when I get there, Bruce. Everything.”
“When?”
“Today, Bruce, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Understand? I am in control and my will will be done. Tell me you understand, Bruce.”
“I-I understand.”
“Good. I’ll be there soon and we will get this done.”
Kat hung up.
***
Bruce sat in the chair by the window. It was dark, inside and out. Frightfully dark. The only light brave enough to challenge the darkness came from his cell phone, and that would extinguish itself in a few moments. Bruce could make out Kevin, across the room curled up on the floor, sleeping. In the middle of the room, he could see the Highway Patrol trooper nodding fitfully, still securely tied to the chair.
Bruce had told Kat that he understood, but in truth he did not. He did not understand why Kevin had acted insane, except that maybe the little lunatic was insane. He did not understand how he had involved himself in this mess. He did not understand why voices in his head alternately cajoled and threatened him, and, most of all, he did not understand why his life had suddenly careened so out of control.
All he had ever wanted was what every man wanted — a good job, an attractive wife who was an animal in bed, a hot car, a nice house, and the admiration and respect of the people around him. A couple of weeks ago it all seemed to be coming together.
Now, it all seemed to be falling apart. Kat had said her will would be done, but what about his will? As he asked the question, he knew the answer. A voice in his head gave it to him. Her will is your will.
He had been with her, in her. They had become one flesh. The voice laughed, reinforcing the stark, ugly truth. Her will would be done. And Bruce willingly, or unwillingly, would do it.
***
Kat arrived at the estate before dawn. She called Bruce and had him come out and unlock the gate. She drove her car around toward the back and parked it on the far side of Kevin’s van. She followed Bruce into the house.
When she entered the front room, the trooper’s head turned and he looked at her. She did not worry that he would identify her because he would never live to testify. That was a given.
The nighttime cloud cover remained as the sun began its slow crawl into the morning sky. As dawn’s light reluctantly crept into the house, Kat began her search. She did not have a clear picture of what it was she was looking for, but she knew it was something needed for the next move. An impression that it had something to do with a weapon and that someone had stashed it, long ago, in some secret place.
Kat looked around the room. Wood paneled walls gave way to heavy, arched doorways. An elegant stairway led to the upper floors. A guiding force nudged her mind, steered her.
She walked around the room, looking at the panels, pausing to touch them. She passed an empty bookcase, its shelves thick with decades of dust. Beyond the bookcase, a stairway. She climbed the first two stairs, running her hands over the boards. She went up two more stairs, and at the bottom of the third panel, she felt a tiny protrusion. A tiny bump that might have been easily mistaken for an imperfection in the wood. Pressing the small bump, she heard a faint click. She pushed and the panel moved back allowing Kat to slide it behind the adjoining panel, revealing a large, hidden space.
The light in the room brightened enough for Kat to see a cross-like object tucked back into the space. Kat wondered what a cross would have to do with a weapon.
She reached into the dark hole and took hold of the object inside, which had some type of oily-feeling material surrounding it. She carefully removed the object. She placed it next to her on the stairs and looked back inside the hole. Seeing something else, she removed a bundle wrapped with narrow strips of equally oil-soaked cloth.
Kat put the bundle down and picked up the cross-like object. She carefully untied the cloth strips that held the covering material in place. Finally revealed, Kat stared at the ancient artifact. It was not a cross. It was a crossbow and although it looked very old, even ancient, the wood remained remarkably preserved.
She put the crossbow down and unwrapped the other package. Inside were a dozen crossbow bolts and another, longer piece of wood. She recognized the longer piece as a goat’s foot cocking lever, although she was sure she had never seen one before. The metal points of the bolts were free of rust and corrosion. Bruce stood at the foot of the stairs, watching, with his mouth hanging open.
Kat picked up the crossbow, using pieces of oily cloth as gloves. It was heavy and unlike anything she had ever seen. Yet, for some reason, it seemed intimately familiar. The taut bowstring showed no signs of fraying or wear. Perfect.
“For God’s sake, Kat, don’t point that thing at me,” Bruce said.
She looked up at Bruce. You are such a piss ant.
“Don’t pee your pants, Bruce. I haven’t even loaded it yet.”
Bruce looked offended.
“Now, give me the key to your car. I have to clean up some loose ends,” she said.
“What’s wrong with your car? You driving my car is what got us into this mess.”
The voices in his head did not wait for Kat to reply.
“Give her the key, you fat piece of shit. Give her the key now.”
“Give me the key, Bruce. Unless you want to spend the rest of your miserable life being punked by prison predators who like their bitchboys with a little meat on their bones.”
“You don’t have to talk to me that way,” he said.
Instead of answering, Kat used the goat’s foot cocking lever and cocked the weapon. She picked up one of the bolts and loaded it into the crossbow. She held the crossbow in front of her, pointing it at Bruce’s crotch.
“Keep it up Bruce and I won’t be talking to you at all. Understand?”
Bruce said nothing. He just pushed his glasses up on his nose, blinked, and handed Kat the Viper’s key.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Pedro lay in the sleeping chair staring up at Saffi’s ceiling. His eyes were still open when sleep rolled over him and pulled him into a very dark place where sinister, demonic creatures chased him through a nightmarish landscape, populated by the animated corpses of American and North Vietnamese soldiers. Corpses horribly mutilated by the instruments of war. The dead soldiers came in tens, hundreds, thousands — eventually becoming an enormous
army; an impenetrable wall of stinking, rotting flesh.
As he turned to run, an opposing army of demonic spirits trapped him between themselves and the animated war dead, with no avenue of escape. He screamed in terror. Bony fingers grasped for him. He spun away from the wall of corpses and faced the advancing demons. They flew toward him, a black, spinning whirlwind of hatred, violence, and wrath. He felt the hands of the dead clawing at him from behind.
A huge, dark figure flew out from the middle of the black horde and hovered in front of him. He could not move, held fast by the innumerable hands reaching out from the corpse wall behind him.
The creature’s eyes were black pits that sucked the heat, the light, the air, and the energy out of Pedro’s dreamscape. The dream itself became an ever-darkening shadow that pressed him on all sides, pushing in with the same bone-crushing force found in the coldest, darkest ocean depths.
The being in front of him spoke, but no air remained to carry the sound. He watched the creature’s lips form words he could not hear with his ears, but that penetrated his mind. A simple message any fool could understand.
Surrender your soul and live.
In the airless horror of his dream, where sound had become as absent as truth, his soul shouted his answer. A single thought in the voice of his mind.
No.
Pedro did not wake up screaming. His eyes popped open when the morning sun forced its way through the day’s cloud cover and the apartment’s closed curtains. It took Pedro a second to remember where he was.
He did not know when the dream ended, but he remembered it. All of it. He knew that it had been more than a simple dream. Evil had confronted him, threatened him, and he had not surrendered. His born-again friend, quoting the Bible, had once told him not to be afraid of those who could kill the body but could not kill the soul. Rather, his friend said, only fear God who can destroy both soul and body in hell, but his friend had never been in combat, had never stood face to face with death.
He lay still for a moment, then sat up and rubbed his face. He heard Jim stir on the sofa. Pedro’s mouth felt coated with paste. He ran his tongue across his teeth. It reminded him of how he felt coming in from a three-day patrol. He wanted food, a shower, clean teeth, a beer, and a cigar. In the light of day, he could think of no reason not to head home. He looked over at Jim, whose eyes were also open.
The Demon Pool Page 29
