“I need to go home.” Pedro said and rubbed his face again. “Get cleaned up. My mouth feels like el diablo himself took a crap in it.”
Jim sat up, throwing off the sheet and blanket that Saffi had given him. He looked at Pedro and nodded.
“We ate a lot of dust in Iraq. The dust got into your clothes, your mouth, into everything. Nothing was sacred, not even your ass crack.”
Pedro laughed quietly.
“In Vietnam, we would go out for a week and it would be so hot and humid that we would all come back with bush sores and jungle rot. Nasty stuff, Señior Demore, but, then, all war is nasty stuff.”
Jim nodded and smiled bitterly.
“Sometimes, life itself is nasty stuff. We clean things up the best we can and keep on going, trying not to get splattered by the next load of crap that comes along.”
“Sí,” Pedro agreed.
“Sometimes,” Jim continued, “I think we need to write down all the crap we’ve been through just so we have an operator’s manual ready for all the new crap that’s already lined up for us. Something to remind us that we survived the other crap and we can survive this crap too. Kind of an ‘Idiot’s Guide to Crap,’ with a nice brown cover.”
Pedro nodded. He suddenly looked as if he had remembered something.
“I think I need to get going, Señior Demore. Please tell your friend thank you for me.”
“Be careful, Señior de la Garza.”
Jim’s smile deserted his face.
“I am not sure what is happening, but someone wants my investigation shut down, and it looks like they’re willing to do anything to stop it.” Jim paused for a second. “And I am pretty sure that includes killing witnesses.”
Pedro nodded. He knew that if he had not escaped the estate, the men there would have killed him.
“S, Señior Demore,” he said. “Yo entiendo. I understand.”
The attention of both men shifted to the short hallway leading to Saffi’s bedroom. Saffi appeared wearing shorts and a simple top, with her hair pulled back away from her face.
“Breakfast?” she asked.
Pedro answered first.
“No, gracias. I really have to go now, but thank you.”
Pedro started toward the front door, turning back to look at Jim and Saffi at the last minute. He spoke to Saffi.
“You are a Christian, no?”
Yes, I am,” she replied, not hesitating. “One of them born-again types, actually.”
Saffi smiled at Pedro. A genuine smile, one that Pedro had rarely seen since the smile his wife had given him the first time he had told her “I love you.”
“Bueno, Señiorita. That is good.”
Pedro turned away for a moment and twisted the deadbolt, unlocking the front door. He opened the door and the warm morning air pushed past him. The sun’s heat and light forced its way through the clouds and the air smelled heavy with salty moisture. The soul-restoring daylight had pushed aside the darkness of the night and, with it, the darkness of his dream. Pedro looked back at Saffi and Jim as he let himself out.
“If you have time, please take a moment and pray for me.”
The door closed behind Pedro before Saffi could reply.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Jim drowned his scrambled eggs in ketchup and used a piece of toast to push them on to his fork. He felt as if he had not eaten in a week. Saffi prepared a cup of coffee and sat it in front of him, next to a bowl full of artificial sweetener packets.
“Cream?” she asked.
His mouth was full and he put his left hand up, palm facing out, indicating his answer. He hurriedly chewed and swallowed.
“No. No, thanks. Black is good.”
Jim usually took his coffee with cream and some type of sweetener, but during field operations, he had always drunk his coffee black, both in the military and as a trooper. He had never given it much thought. Just a personal quirk. Something about black coffee made him feel operational.
Jim picked up the coffee mug and held it in both hands, right below his nose. The aroma was rich and smooth. He blew on the surface and watched tiny waves ripple across the top of the ebony liquid, beating against the side of the mug. He took a sip, savoring its flavor. The smell alone was almost enough to clear the last strands of morning cobwebs from his brain. It amazed Jim what Saffi had done with instant coffee. He finished off his eggs while Saffi ate some fresh melon and sipped from a cup of herb tea.
“I just can’t seem to get my mind wrapped around this whole occult-metaphysical thing,” Jim said. “I mean, I know some people that believe in that crap, but belief doesn’t make it real.”
“Have you ever read the Bible, Jim?”
“I have an uncle who is a preacher,” Jim told her. “Hard-core, Bible-thumping, fire-and-brimstone type. Stomped his feet, jumped over pews. Scared the hell out of me when I was little.”
Jim made a face as if he had tasted something bitter.
“He had a small church for a while and then he became some kind of traveling evangelist. Sort of like a minor league, hyperactive, Billy Graham.”
Jim sipped his coffee and continued, “He gave me a King James Bible once. Told me to read it and believe it if I didn’t want to end up in hell.”
Jim sat the coffee down.
“He didn’t tell me where to start, though, so I kind of flipped through it and found the last book, the book of Revelation. Looked like I might learn something about the future so I started reading. Scared the crap out of me more than my uncle did. I had nightmares for a month. I haven’t read too much of the Bible since.”
Saffi was quiet for a moment.
“Revelation is a scary book, especially if you are fighting for the wrong side,” Saffi replied. “If you think about it, the evidence for the occult is overwhelming. Otherwise, the only other conclusion is that the ninety percent of the world that believes in a spiritual existence is flat out crazy. I might believe ten or twenty percent of the world is nuts, but not ninety. We do follow the evidence, don’t we?”
Jim nodded and answered, “We do.”
He tilted his head, nodded his agreement.
“Okay,” he continued. “I don’t believe that ninety percent of the world is crazy, either. I might go as high as thirty, thirty-five percent, but not ninety percent. However, I find it damn hard to believe in witchcraft, voodoo, and all of that crap. If that stuff were real, a whole lot more people would be using it to get what they want. I can pretty much guarantee you that. I have never met anyone who claimed to have special powers, or who claimed to be a witch or witch doctor, or any of that hocus-pocus crap who was doing any better than the rest of us. If it doesn’t work, what the heck good is it?”
Saffi smiled.
“I don’t believe individual human beings have any special, occult powers in and of themselves,” Saffi replied. “However, the Bible does reveal that the supernatural world exists. And, it’s pretty much like you described before. God and his guys on one side, the devil and his on the other. The Bible, and I think it’s John 4:24, clearly states that God himself is a spirit. So, tens of millions of people believing in, and even actually experiencing, a metaphysical world, is strong, corroborative evidence. The Bible gives us one view of the supernatural world; other occult writings give us a different view. Like many other Christians, I happen to believe the Bible’s revelation is the correct one.”
Saffi paused, waiting for Jim’s response.
“All right, let’s say for a moment that there is an occult world. That there are things that go bump in the night.”
Saffi interrupted him.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”
“Okay, devils, demons, witches, warlocks, ghosts, lost souls, whatever you want to call them. How do you stop something that isn’t physical? I think what I have to deal with is the human element. After all, I don’t know of any way to arrest a demon, a ghost, or a spirit, and I doubt I could get a warrant. But even if I could, how would
I get the handcuffs to stay on?”
Jim could not resist poking fun at the idea. Saffi’s face crinkled with disapproval. Jim rushed to finish his thought, before he completely pissed her off.
“But I can sure as hell arrest flesh and blood kidnappers and murderers.”
The crinkles went away with Saffi’s reply.
“You’re a funny guy, Jim Demore,” Saffi said. “Look, there is no doubt that we have to deal with the human element, I can’t argue with that. The human element is what my lab is all about, but I don’t think we can afford to ignore the spiritual side either. At least not when it manifests itself as tangible evil. Let’s assume, for the moment, that the Bible’s view of good and evil is true, and that we are dealing with something that goes beyond the simple human element and beyond something, as you put it, that goes ‘bump’ in the night.”
“Okay,” Jim injected. “Demons and wizards it is.”
He was sure that Saffi could not have missed the subtle mocking in his voice. He couldn’t resist.
“It’s actually demons and angels, Jim. At least that’s the Biblical part. Evil has an occult source beyond our fallen, human nature. Jesus and the apostles drove demons out of many people, but nothing in the Bible says that the demonic world suddenly went away.”
Saffi’s voice became serious. “If we’re dealing with something demonic, then it is also very old and probably very wise, at least in comparison to us. Imagine a millennia-old network that knows every human achievement and every human weakness, and sees everything we do or say. They would know your successes and your failures, your strengths and weaknesses. Every secret sin you ever committed. At least the ones outside of your mind. The ones they could actually see or hear. The one thing they cannot do is read your mind. Otherwise the devil would have never made the bet with God over Job.”
“Who’s Job?”
Saffi laughed.
“Okay, now I believe you when you said you stopped with Revelation. Job is another book in the Bible. The short version of the story is that the devil told God that Job only loved him because of the way God protected and blessed him. Satan argued that Job would curse God to his face if God took away those protections. God basically told the devil to go for it, just don’t kill him. The devil went to work, and Job had a lot of questions about why his life suddenly turned to crap. So bad, in fact, that Job’s wife told him to curse God and die. Some wife there. But, Job never blamed God. In the end, God gave Job back more than he had started with. God knew Job’s heart, Satan did not. The devil is powerful and he knows a lot, but not more than God.”
Jim gave Saffi a thoughtful look.
“Well, I really don’t know too much about that, but if God is the good guy you say he is, then I’m pretty sure we’re on the right side, regardless of what I believe about the occult. I hope that is enough.”
Saffi smiled and held Jim’s gaze.
“If we add prayer and faith, I think it will be.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Kat Connors knew something about dingy, redneck bars like the Pit Stop. Her mother had met her father in one in Port Tampa. Her father, a truck driver and itinerant mechanic, had died outside of one in South Georgia, fighting over a cocktail waitress while her mother was home, pregnant with Kat.
Her first stepfather was a biker, who flashed a lot of cash and sold meth and was another patron of the Port Tampa bar. He was currently doing 25-to-life for shooting and killing an undercover cop.
The Pit Stop was a local’s bar. Located a short distance off the interstate, south of Ft. Myers, it attracted a motley assortment of characters — NASCAR fans, cops, local yokels, and the occasional biker.
Kat had taken the Viper and left Bruce, which had caused him to sulk, complain, and generally piss her off. Poor stupid Bruce. You’ve outlived your usefulness.
She parked at the far end of a row of pickup trucks and cars that looked fresh from the “buy here, pay here” car lot. The Viper looked decidedly out of place.
She entered The Pit Stop and scanned the joint. She had never seen de la Garza up close. Her eyes swept the lounge. There.
A voice in her head, that apparently only she could hear, guided her. Her eyes stopped on de la Garza.
He is the one.
Pedro sat alone, away from the bar. Kat watched him for a moment. She knew that de la Garza had spent the night with Jim Demore at the apartment in Ft. Myers. She had scoped out the location of that apartment, before going to the estate to get Bruce’s car.
Unfortunately, the spirit helpers who now assisted her had not been able to enter the apartment. Something had kept them on the outside. A power greater than the power of the disembodied spirits that were now at her disposal. A power they were not yet able to overcome.
Regardless of that failure, the power Kat had tapped into proved to be useful. The network informed her of Pedro’s previous interviews with Demore. The spirits that hovered around the periphery of de la Garza’s life were more than happy to share their knowledge.
One spirit, who specialized in depression and hung around Pedro like an old, comfortable blanket, had much to say about the weaknesses of Pedro de la Garza.
Her spirit helpers, her heretofore-unknown network of metaphysical observers and messengers, provided information that, she could never have known by herself. While candle magick had given her a new level of power to control others, it had not made her omniscient. Not yet, anyway.
***
Bright sunlight flashed through the bar’s dim interior. Pedro picked up the cold glass of soda, ready to wash down the first bite of the best fish taco in Southwest Florida. A beer would have been better, but he valued his commercial driver’s license.
He looked toward the door where an exceptionally attractive woman had entered the bar. She stopped and looked around. Pedro immediately felt that something was wrong. A powerful, almost overwhelming feeling of dread. A chill walked up his spine, unnatural in the hot summer air.
Normally, an attractive woman like this would have brought out a bit of the wolf in Pedro. He still missed his wife, even after all these years, and he was not too old to be exempt from the normal needs of a healthy man. The woman who entered the bar was more than enough to stir up those needs, and probably a couple of abnormal ones as well.
However, this woman, as beautiful as she was, gave him the same sense of impending danger he had experienced just before a Viet Cong ambush. The bite of fish taco he still had in his mouth did not taste good anymore.
Pedro swallowed and decided not to wait around to find out why this woman made him feel so peculiar. He reached into his pocket and pulled out some bills. He peeled off a twenty for a six ninety-nine tab and threw it on the table, then hustled out a side door and into his truck. He did not notice the Dodge Viper parked at the far end of the line of trucks and cars as he roared out of the parking lot and onto the frontage road.
***
Baalzaric, peering through Kat’s eyes, watched Pedro almost sprint out the door. In spite of the man’s current weaknesses, Baalzaric knew that de la Garza had once been a warrior. He had been a fighter. A man who could kill his enemies without hesitation. While de la Garza might seem like a minor threat, Baalzaric would take no chances. On the journey to immortality, there would be many small steps. The death of Pedro de la Garza would be one of the smaller ones.
Kat left The Pit Stop, walked back to the Viper, and slipped behind the wheel. Baalzaric provided the prompts as she drove out of the parking lot and followed Pedro. She drove for miles, staying well behind him as he headed south toward the Everglades.
With Kat keeping a discreet distance, Baalzaric watched as Pedro turned off the road, his truck disappearing behind a wall of brush. Kat slowed until she reached the point where Pedro’s truck had vanished.
She followed onto an unpaved road that was little more than a wide trail covered by a layer of crushed shell, flanked by a jungle of moss-covered oak trees, shrubs, and wild vines. Kat steered the Vi
per through the dense, jungle-like landscape.
The crushed shell covering the road crunched under the weight of the Viper. She drove slowly, trying to minimize the racket, and followed the trail as it curved to the south. The jungle abruptly ended at a clearing where Kat stopped. She kept the Viper’s nose inside the jungle wall and turned off the engine.
***
Pedro unlocked his front door then froze for a second and listened. He heard a noise, but it was not insects or wild animals or any of the normal sounds he heard day and night, close to the Everglades. Something else?
He listened as he quietly unlocked his front door. He heard a deep rumble followed by faint popping sounds. The noise had come from the trail leading to the cottage.
He looked over toward where the trail emptied into the clearing. The sun was now high and hot and the humid air shimmered at the edges of the clearing surrounding his house.
Pedro shivered as cold sweat rolled down his back. He squinted toward the trail and thought he saw someone standing in the shadow of the mossy overgrowth. Saw or imagined?
More cold sweat beaded up on his forehead and slid over his eyebrows, forming drops that rolled around his eyes, down his cheeks, and then splashed onto the porch. He wiped his face with his hand. His keys jangled, breaking the now surreal silence. He looked back at the jungle and this time saw no one.
The insects began talking again. The hot sun pushed its warmth down on Pedro, but it was not warm enough. Cold fear followed him into his little house.
Once inside, he locked the front door, walked quickly to his bedroom, and opened the closet. Sitting at the back of the closet, pushed up against the back wall, was an old olive drab, Vietnam-era footlocker. Attached to the front latch was a modern, heavy-duty combination lock.
Pedro knelt down and pulled the footlocker toward the front of the closet and worked the dial of the lock. In a few seconds, he had the lock off and opened the footlocker. A neatly folded, military-issued blanket covered its contents. Pulling it back, Pedro exposed a long object wrapped in an oil-stained sheet. He unwrapped the covering revealing a well-cared for Chinese-type 56 version of the Russian AK-47.
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