Pedro removed the rifle and stood it against the wall next to the closet. He removed a second blanket, uncovering a bottom layer of gear.
Pedro removed an ammo can and took two magazines out of a canvas bag. He loaded each twenty-round magazine with fifteen 7.62 mm cartridges, careful not to overload the magazines’ spring mechanisms.
It had cost Pedro two-hundred dollars to get the rifle and magazines back to the United States from Vietnam. A lot of money in those days. He had not fired the rifle in more than thirty years, but Pedro knew that the AK-47 clone was an amazingly reliable assault rifle. Once or twice each year, he took the rifle out and wiped it down with a light coat of gun oil, checked the operation of the bolt, and then put it back in the footlocker.
Of course, an automatic assault rifle was now illegal as hell unless registered with the feds, but he had never bothered to register the gun. Until now, it had been little more than a relic, a tangible reminder of a kill-or-be-killed reality that he had hoped never to revisit. So much for hope.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Pedro finished loading the magazines, inserted a magazine into the AK-47 clone, and jacked one cartridge into the chamber. Going back into the footlocker, he searched until he found a small, cloth wrapped item tied up with common twine. He untied it, exposing a beautiful rosary necklace. Polished beads of coco wood led to a Miraculous Mary followed by a silver crucifix. His mother had given it to him just before he left for Vietnam. Breaking with tradition, he hung it around his neck.
He repacked the footlocker, returning it to its place in the back of the closet. Standing, he picked up the rifle and spare magazines, and carried them to the living room. He leaned the rifle against his chair and placed the spare magazines on the side table. If, no, when they came for him, he would be ready. He then went to the small, combination secretary and bookcase that sat against the wall, next to the kitchen.
A genuine antique, the secretary had been his father’s, one of the few items salvaged by the family from the estate. Pedro opened the glass door of the attached bookcase, reached behind a row of hardback editions, and retrieved a thin chapbook. Gold embossed letters proclaimed the author’s name and the small book’s title. Unlike many contemporary bookstore chapbooks, no art decorated the cover. Pedro read the short title. Poesias de Nuestra Vida. Poems of Our Life.
Poems filled the small book, written by his late wife before depression and, ultimately, suicide, took her away from him. After Pedro had carefully typed each handwritten poem, he had found an old Cuban bookbinder in Ybor City to bind them into the book. It had been a labor of love, and Pedro had thought it would help cleanse him of his unresolved guilt and grief. It had not.
Pedro opened the chapbook and found a letter, six pages folded together, tucked inside. It had permanent creases along with some minor damage around the edges, but, overall, it was still in good condition.
The date of the letter, written above the greeting, was sixteen twenty-one, one hundred years after the death of the famous explorer, Juan Ponce de Leon. The letter was from a priest, Father Dominic de Molina, and summarized an investigation into the death of another Catholic priest, referred to in the letter only as Father Miguel, spiritual advisor to the conquistador Hernán Cortez.
Father Miguel had accused one of Cortez’s captains of being demon possessed. By the time the church investigated the incident, all of the witnesses were long dead, except the accused demoniac, Captain Juan Carlos de la Viña, who was on a ship returning to La Florida from Mexico.
Father Dominic met up with the ship in Cuba and spent hours with the captain, rumored to be more than one hundred fifty-years old. If Father de Molina were a betting man, he would have guessed that Captain de la Viña was at the most, sixty-five or seventy, and while Captain de la Viña no longer had the strapping physique of a Spanish Conquistador, he was still mobile and coherent.
In the opening paragraph of the letter, Father de Molina stated his qualifications and his extensive experience with demonic possession. He also summarized his purification process in preparation for the investigation, explaining the impossibility of confronting, let alone defeating, the agents of Satan’s demonic army without personal purity. The investigation concluded that Father Miguel had most likely ignored this element in his service to God and Spain, and had apparently paid for his mistake with his life.
Pedro had read the letter once before, shortly after his father had passed it to him. His father had described the letter as “religious superstition,” yet he had had the age and originality of the letter authenticated. A rare book dealer in Tampa had offered him five-hundred dollars for the letter. As much as his father needed the money to continue his fight against the government, he did not sell it. It was one of the few valuable things that he had passed on to Pedro.
Pedro went to his kitchen, found a clean glass, and helped himself to a generous portion of whiskey. While he believed he needed to be vigilant, the previous night’s darkness did not seem to have followed him home.
Returning to the living room with the whiskey and the letter, he retrieved a cigar from its box and sat in his chair. He placed the letter on the table and trimmed the cigar. He took out a Zippo lighter, emblazoned with a 1st Cavalry Division crest, and lit the cigar. He placed the lighter, crest side up, on the table next to his chair. He inhaled deeply from the cigar, savoring the rich Cuban tobacco. He sipped the whiskey and smoked the cigar until he felt calm, wrapped in his own personal, cigar-and-whiskey Zen moment. Finally, he picked up the letter and started reading.
It is with great regard to both the truth and the holiness of the Mother Church that I write this regrettable epistle. Some men, in their lust for power and coin, pierce themselves with many sorrows and open a path to Satan and his dark hoard. Such seems to be the case with the late Captain de la Viña.
He read slowly, his parochial school Latin studies allowing him to pick through Father de Molina’s script.
While we had few conversations during our journey to La Florida, I became convinced that the captain exhibited many of the traits of a demoniac. Once on shore, I pressed the captain, borrowing many of the rhetorical techniques of an inquisitor. However, the captain’s responses rarely went beyond superficial disagreeableness and occasional outbursts of vile verbal vitriol, punctuated by mumblings of ‘no more time.’
Captain de la Viña often walked alone into the land’s interior. One day, I decided to follow. De la Viña, by this time none too steady, managed to walk several miles east of the camp. He gave no indication that he was aware that I followed behind.
It was late in the afternoon when, with some difficulty, the Captain pushed his way through a heavy wall of brush. Since I had no escort and could not be sure of my safety, I hesitated for a moment before deciding to follow. I pushed my way through the same brush wall and found myself standing in a small oasis of grass.
A pool of water occupied the center of the oasis and at the edge of the pool stood Captain de la Viña, now naked. Momentary surprise turned to trepidation when Captain de la Viña turned his head and looked directly at me. He raised both of his arms and shook his fists at the bright Florida sky and thrice shouted ‘no more time.’ Then he walked into the water until he disappeared beneath its shimmering surface.
I am not a man inclined to allow even a reprobate soldier to commit suicide. Every man should have his final opportunity to repent. I discarded my robe and ran toward the water. I am a strong swimmer, having grown up on the coast near Malaga, Spain; so the small pool offered no great challenge. At least that was what I thought when I first splashed into the water.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
It had been many years since Pedro had read the letter detailing Father de Molina’s investigation. He remembered thinking how sad it must have been to allow religious superstition to rule one’s existence. In light of his own recent experience, Pedro felt he owed Father de Molina an apology. He continued to read.
In the pool, I somehow became
disoriented, despite its small size and the brightness of the sun shining across its surface. The water went from warm to ice-cold after only inches, and I found myself surrounded by darkness, even though I had not traveled more than a few feet below the surface, seeking de la Viña.
I thrashed around, not sure if my flogging arms moved me up toward the surface or down into deeper water. Even with my eyes wide open, I could see nothing, my sole sensory experience being the freezing cold water and the burning in my lungs. That is, until I saw the eyes.
For a moment, they froze my soul. The pupils were large, shiny, black pearls surrounded by glowing, reddish-pink irises. The scleras, the whites of the eyes, were as white as the bright whiteness of the ghost beetles that Marco Polo had brought back from the Malay Archipelago as I’d seen during one of my many trips to the Vatican. Cunning, intelligence, and unrestrained evil lurked in those eyes, and I knew that I had met the devil.
For a moment, I forgot that my lungs were burning as the cold of the water sucked out the final vestiges of heat and life from my body. I only knew that I had to resist the devil and flee to survive.
In that crisis, I knew that only God could provide my escape. I knew that the mechanism of that escape could only come through prayer, so I prayed. I prayed like a man who knew he would surely die unless the Divine intervened.
As I prayed, I ordered my arms and legs to move. Soon I swam again, not knowing what direction my efforts would take me. At the point where I could no longer resist the demands of my lungs, I broke the surface of the water. Hot sun warmed my face as precious air rushed into my lungs. Sweet, life-giving air.
However, I did not take time to relish the air’s sweetness or the sun’s warmth. My arms stroked the water until I found myself face to face with Captain de la Viña.
His eyes were open, his face changed, painted now with great age. Shriveled, transparent, skin covered his skull, creating a hideous caricature of a once handsome and powerful man. A repulsive, water-soaked portrait that saw nothing as it stared vacantly into my eyes.
I backpedaled away from the corpse and used my remaining strength to swim around the macabre mass of rotting flesh. I swam harder than I had ever swum before. Harder than when I was a boy outswimming all of my schoolmates when one of them had suddenly yelled “shark.” That time the terror had been a joke. Not so today.
Finally, I felt the bottom of the pool beneath my feet. My legs found their footing. I staggered up on to the bank and collapsed onto my back. I sucked in the air with great ragged breaths as I supported myself on my elbows.
I glanced back at the pool and saw a faint ripple that grew as it moved toward me. I watched something bump the still floating corpse of Captain de la Viña, causing the captain’s body to sink beneath the surface. Ten feet from the bank, the eyes of a great beast broke the surface. It moved faster than I could have ever expected.
I did not wait for el lagarto to reach the shore. I scrambled away from the edge and, still breathing hard, jumped to my feet. I grabbed my robe and sandals and fled naked through the wall of brush, ignoring the pain as my bare feet crashed down on dried branches and sharp palm fronds raked my body. I ran, fell, got up, and ran again until my lungs burned white-hot and I could go no further. I fell and sat listening, exerting no small effort in trying to quiet the gasping and whooshing sounds coming from my nose and mouth.
I listened but heard nothing more than the hurricane sounds of my own breath. I used my robe to wipe the blood from my feet, before putting on my sandals. Otherwise still naked, I remained still, like one who was dead. My breathing slowed as I listened. Nothing followed.
Getting to my feet, I realized I had faced the devil, prayed for God’s mercy and escaped by God’s grace. I ignored the pain in my feet, put on my robe, and crossed myself. I said a short prayer of thanks and began the long, and now painful, walk back to the camp. I was sure that it was only my faith in God that had kept me from the devil. However, a question remained. As I write this letter, who would believe me?
***
Almost four hundred years later, sitting in his chair in his little house, Pedro de la Garza believed. It all made sense. The stories and rumors about his great-grandfather. Especially, the reported condition of his body when they found it in the pool. Father de Molina had seen Captain de la Viña in the same condition.
In his report, Father de Molina had concluded that a demon had possessed Captain de la Viña. Once the Father returned to Spain, he had been able to locate the captain’s birth record. According to the records, Captain de la Viña had been more than one hundred fifty years old when he died.
For Pedro, Father de Molina’s letter completed the picture begun by the events of the past several days. It even helped to explain the legend of Tank, the alligator.
Pedro put the letter aside and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Jim Demore’s number. Jim answered on the first ring.
“Señior Demore, I have something you need to see.”
“Can it wait?” Jim sounded interested, but distracted.
“In all truth, señior, no,” Pedro replied. “It cannot wait.”
“I don’t have much time, Señior de la Garza. Are you at home?”
“Sí, señior. But first, let me read something to you. It is a letter, a report actually, that is in Latin, but I will translate.”
Urgency sprinkled with anxiety clouded Jim’s voice.
“I really don’t have much time, Señior de la Garza.”
“It is but a few pages, Señior Demore. You will not regret hearing this. It will help you understand.”
After a brief pause, Jim replied, “I understand that I’m the only one who has any chance of saving Carl Johns. Hurry up. Tell me what you know.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
Jim Demore drove his patrol car south on State Route 29. Back at Saffi’s apartment, before leaving for de la Garza’a house near the ‘glades, Jim had put his cell phone on speaker, and he and Saffi had listened while Pedro de la Garza read Father de Molina’s report, translating it into English for Jim and Saffi.
For Jim, it was an amazing story. For all of his resistance to the supernatural, Jim had to admit the possibility of a relationship between Captain de la Viña, more than four hundred years ago, Pedro’s great-grandfather three hundred years later, and what was happening today.
Lots of people believed in demons, and angels, and ghosts, and little green men from Mars. But not Jim. At least not until now and certainly not demons that lived in water and could empower a person to live well beyond what was considered a normal lifespan. That was crazy. But, so was his relationship with Linda. So was getting his house blown up. So was Briggs and Kimberly getting decapitated in Briggs’ Corvette. So was “Trooper Gone Wild.” The whole damn last couple of weeks was crazy bumping into insane.
But if some crazy demonic force had caused the death of Briggs and the subsequent events surrounding the crash, where exactly did that force reside now? Or, crazy enough, in whom did it reside?
Jim was not sure he wanted to know. Yet, even if something supernatural, something demonic, lurked behind the Briggs’ case, the underlying force worked through human beings and human beings had weaknesses. He could investigate human beings. Arrest them. See them tried and convicted. If he had to drag a demon along for the ride, so be it.
Jim turned off the paved highway, north of the Tamiami Trail, and followed the shell path that substituted for a driveway for a quarter of a mile. Once again, he pulled up in front of de la Garza’s house.
Painted yellow with brown trim, the house had storm shutters that framed the windows, giving the front of the house a face-like appearance. From the outside, in the bright daylight, the house looked well-kept, except for the broken front window. Don’t remember seeing that.
The sun floated down toward the Gulf of Mexico. Quiet surrounded the house like a thick, soft blanket. Jim had been inside de la Garza’s house and had seen nothing more frightening than the cheap whiskey
de la Garza drank with his not-so-cheap Cuban cigars, along with a few sad reminders of the man’s painful memories. Not exactly the Amityville horror house. Yet, it appeared that some dark power or influence had worked its way into de la Garza’s life. Just one more bit of crazy.
He killed the Charger’s engine, stepped out of his car and surveyed the area around the house. The more comfortable temperatures of fall pushed against summer’s blistering heat, struggling to gain a toehold. Still, an unexplained heaviness hung in the air. Something more than residual summer heat and humidity. Some lingering thing that clung to the space around de la Garza’s house, bathing the air in a toxic miasma that was odorless and colorless, but made itself felt nonetheless.
Jim scanned the landscape one more time. Nothing looked out of place, other than the broken window; yet, he noticed his heart racing and his palms sweating. The hairs on his arms stood at attention on top of little mountains of goose flesh, his body reacting to some perceived threat. What some called a sixth sense. Cops called it ‘cop sense.’ Jim had always believed it was the result of millions of years of evolutionary survival. Unfortunately, nothing he had studied or experienced in college, in the military, or at the Highway Patrol Academy had prepared him for what he now felt. Maybe he should have paid more attention in church, or listened more closely to crazy Uncle Jack.
Walking up the steps to the tiny home’s porch, Jim glanced at the broken window and then back toward the dirt drive. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. The enormity of the silence disturbed him. After all, Florida had bugs. Tons of big, noisy bugs, along with the birds and other creatures that fed on them. The eerie silence seemed to have weight and mass, pressing down, forcing an unnatural stillness on the ‘glades. Jim reached down and touched his weapon. Reassurance.
The Demon Pool Page 31
