The Demon Pool

by Richard B. Dwyer

  Both Saffi and Uncle Jack shook their heads.

  “We need to pray before you leave, Jim,” Jack said.

  It was not a request. Saffi nodded in agreement.

  “Okay, but let’s make it quick. I need to get started.”

  Uncle Jack held out his hand to Saffi, who took it willingly. Saffi and Uncle Jack both held out their free hands toward Jim. Jim hesitated, then took their hands.

  “Let’s pray,” Uncle Jack said. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and began praying aloud.

  “Heavenly Father, we know that you are good, that you are holy, that you are true. We know that all the powers of darkness are subject to your authority and to that of your righteous Son, Jesus. We pray for your covering tonight as Jim goes into the lion’s den to recover that which was lost.”

  Jack’s voice rose in volume.

  “We pray for your protection, for your power, for your holy angels to clear the path and provide the covering for Jim’s work tonight. We also pray that you will open Jim’s eyes and his heart to your truth, the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

  Jim started to pull his hand away, but Uncle Jack’s grip was a vise.

  “Lord, we know it is not your desire that anyone be lost, and you know how I have prayed for Jim all these years. Please keep him safe tonight so that his soul will not be lost. In the name of Jesus, we pray, Amen.”

  The vise released its grip on Jim’s hand. Somehow, he just did not feel like the lost sinner that Uncle Jack portrayed him to be. He knew he had broken a few of the Ten Commandments, but didn’t everyone? Maybe that did make everyone a sinner by Uncle Jack’s definition, but he did not believe that he was so bad that God, if he existed, would send him to hell. Maybe Kat Connors and her little gang of freak losers, but not someone who was actually trying to live a good life.

  Saffi looked at Jim with pleading eyes that said “be careful.” She was so pretty it almost made Jim want to go to church just to spend time with her. Get to know her. But that would be the wrong motive wouldn’t it? Was it motives that sent people to hell, or just behavior? Or maybe some combination of both?

  Well, regardless of how he felt about God, Jesus, the Bible, or religion, evil existed. Of that, he had no doubt. Tonight he would confront the evil surrounding the Briggs’ case, whether it was in the form of a malicious woman and her moronic minions, or the devil himself. He would go to war one more time.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Jim parked the Charger a mile-and-a-half west of the de la Garza estate. Although the night began with the sky sprinkled with stars and illuminated by a sliver of moon, a thick cloud cover had rolled in from the Gulf of Mexico. At least, he hoped it was only clouds. He recalled Pedro’s story of the darkness that surrounded his truck while driving to Saffi’s apartment. Pedro had described it as some thick, black, malevolent murk that overshadowed his vehicle and chased him all the way to Ft. Myers.

  In spite of the sudden overcast, Jim did not feel any evil presence in the air. He felt only the forward edge of a tropical storm, or, possibly, a hurricane blowing in from the gulf. He realized he’d been divorced from the news and weather reports the last few days. The tropical storm that had been forming in the gulf could now be closing in on the Florida coast. Had it reached hurricane strength yet? No problem. The worse the weather, the greater the tactical advantage.

  He had driven into the tree line far enough that his dome light would not be visible from the roadway. Turning it on, he took a few minutes to put on the camouflage face paint. He dug around in his gear bag until he found a matte black do-rag with a built-in sweatband. Despite the slightly cooler temperature, the humidity was as high as mid-July. He didn’t want sweat in his eyes spoiling his aim when he had to pull the trigger. He might only get one shot at each target, and he wanted to make damn sure that the shot would count.

  He used the tube of Carbomask to touch up around his hairline, ensuring that he covered every blond hair and bit of exposed flesh. He checked himself in the rear view mirror. If someone looked straight at him tonight, all they would see was a pair of ice-blue eyes staring out of the pitch-black night.

  He checked his weapons, secured them, and turned off the dome light to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He put on the night vision goggles and the night lit up with a green glow. He would easily be able to see where he was going, and he was reasonably sure that even the devil himself would have a hard time locating him tonight.

  Jim sat still for another moment. Maybe all the demon crap was just that — crap. But, if it was real, well, why take chances? He closed his eyes and took a moment for another prayer.

  “God,” Jim said quietly, “you know I’m not even sure that you actually exist. Sometimes I wish that I could be like Uncle Jack, or like Saffi. It’s probably nice to have that kind of faith. I guess everyone needs something to believe in, otherwise Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny would be out in the cold too.” He smiled, then continued, “I’m not making fun of you, God. Please do not get pissed at me, especially tonight. This is going to be tough enough as it is without pissing off the one person who might actually have the power to help me. So, God, if you are real, Uncle Jack and Saffi will be talking to you tonight. Would you take a moment and listen to them? Not for my sake, but for Carl’s. He’s a good guy, God. One of the guys with the white hats. If you’re there, thanks for listening. In Jesus’ name, I guess. Amen.”

  He opened his eyes, lifted the night vision goggles, and pulled back his sleeve to check his watch. It was almost eleven thirty. He could easily cover a mile-and-a-half in about eleven minutes on pavement, running and in the daylight. But he’d need more time going through the brush at night, even with the night vision goggles.

  Noise wouldn’t be a concern until after he breached the fence behind the estate. Once inside, he’d have to move slower, with more stealth. The bad guys would be looking for him at the gate, not behind the house, and with the wind picking up, any sounds he made would be masked.

  He slipped the sleeve of his jersey back over his watch and pulled the night vision goggles down. He sat quiet for a moment longer. Nothing felt out of place. If demons lurked about, they were not close enough — or powerful enough — to have any influence or effect. At least, that was what he hoped.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Baalzaric worried. It was an emotion he did not often experience. In spite of his success with Kat, Baalzaric felt something had gone wrong. He was not receiving the reports he expected from his demonic horde. He was sure that Demore would show up, but not knowing Demore’s location bothered him. Something stood in his way, interfered with his network, and that concerned him.

  On the surface, it seemed Kat had gained control of the situation. Demore was on his way, and she would eliminate him as a threat. As for the virtually useless Bruce York, neither Baalzaric nor Kat had any further need of him. They might keep Kevin around for a while. He was easy to control and had developed certain skills in body disposal that could be useful in the weeks and months to come. He would also make a suitable scapegoat, if they needed one.

  Knowing what suckers humans were for their fellow human beings, especially the ones who thought of themselves as the good guys, he was sure that Demore would show up on time, and Kat would see that he was either co-opted or eliminated. Nevertheless, in spite of the careful planning, he felt that something had gone wrong, and he did not like it. Not at all.

  ***

  Kat felt anxious. Something in the back of her mind told her that her plan was not as foolproof as she had expected. Although it was possible that Kevin, or even Bruce, might be able to handle Demore, she couldn’t count on it.

  Her first choice would be to have Demore join her little group of demonically possessed love-slaves. It would be useful to have someone who could warn her if, or when, the authorities got wind of the plans she had for Advanced Genetic Technologies. It would also be useful if Demore cooperated in closing the Briggs’ case as one mor
e tragic automobile accident. That would be the ideal. But with people, you never got the ideal. The best you could ever hope for was that you could use them to get what you wanted before they used you. So she would use Demore, if she could, and kill him if she could not. Either way, she would win.

  Kat had spent the last two hours cleaning and preparing the main bedroom upstairs. According to Bruce, the house had remained closed up for years, except for his occasional visits. Surprisingly, little dust infected the bedroom. Kat placed several specially prepared candles strategically around the room. The windows faced the back of the property, allowing Kat to light them without jeopardizing security.

  Her final task, getting the windows open to eliminate the staleness, took significant effort. She used both thumbs to push the circular latch around its pivot point, unlocking each window. Then she struggled, her shoulder muscles bunching into knots, as she pushed each window open just enough to let some fresh air into the room.

  Bruce and Kevin had kept the house dark to avoid drawing attention from the occasional passing motorist. But Bruce, as the government’s administrator, had kept the power to the house connected. At Kat’s bidding, he screwed the old fuses back into their sockets. Amazingly, the ancient water pump and the almost antique water heater still worked. Kat picked up a small gym bag that was sitting next to the bedroom door and went down the hall to the bathroom.

  Someone, possibly military engineers during the Army’s World War II stay, had upgraded parts of the estate’s electric and plumbing. The bathtub had a shower, and someone had even hung a shower curtain. From the looks of it, it had been sometime in the distant past.

  Kat turned on both handles, adjusting the water temperature until it was warm. Despite the age of the pipes, the pump, and the hot water heater, the water that splashed against her bare skin felt warm and fresh. Kat washed herself. Just as she had done repeatedly after Robert Greer had had her, only this time she would not be the victim. She would be the seducer.

  She pushed the earlier anxiety away as she rinsed soap and shampoo from her body. She turned off the water and pushed the shower curtain aside. She grabbed her towel as she stepped out of the tub and dried herself.

  She reached into the gym bag and took out a small bottle of Gucci Eau de Parfum, applying it to all of the strategic pulse areas of her body.

  Kat put the perfume back into the gym bag and put on a mini-sundress and Cole Haan sandals. In a corner, across from the tub and shower, stood an antique oak dressing mirror. Standing in front of the mirror, Kat looked at herself. She was ready for Jim Demore. What she was not ready for was Bruce York staring at her through the open bathroom door.

  “Did you peep in windows when you were a little boy, Bruce?” Kat asked.

  Bruce’s bulk filled the door frame. A red flush took over his face. He pushed his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose and blinked stupidly at her before answering.

  “The cop will be here soon,” Bruce told her. “Then we can kill him.”

  Bruce continued to stare. Kat faced him. The hem of the short sundress swirled around the tops of her thighs. Kat looked at his pathetic bulk, and then into his eyes. More stupid blinks.

  “Bruce,” Kat said as if she were explaining something to a child, a particularly, dim-witted child. “I need to know exactly what he knows, so I don’t want him dead yet. There are things that you don’t know, and frankly Bruce, I don’t have time to explain right now.” She made no effort to keep the condescension out of her voice. “When he arrives, bring him to me. Alive. Understand?”

  “You don’t have to talk to me like that. I’ve done everything you wanted,” Bruce squeaked.

  The whine in his voice irritated her. Bruce pushed his glasses back up on his nose again. Blink, blink, blink.

  “Yes, you have,” she said. But I don’t need you any more, slug-boy.

  Her voice was ice, wrapped in silk.

  “Just bring Demore to me when he arrives,” she ordered, “and you will get everything you have coming to you.”

  Kat walked toward Bruce as she spoke. Her high-heeled sandals clicked against the floor. She stopped short of allowing her breasts to brush against Bruce’s shirt. She placed her right hand on his chest and let it slip slowly south.

  “Believe me, Bruce,” she said softly, “I have something special for you.”

  Kat’s hand snaked around Bruce’s waist. She grabbed his belt and spun him around as if he weighed nothing, then gave him enough of a shove to start him moving back toward the stairs.

  ***

  Once they killed the cop, Baalzaric had no reason to keep Bruce alive. He knew the temporary inhabitants of Bruce’s body would not be happy when they had to abandon their fleshly home, but it would be one of the unavoidable sacrifices required for their future immortality. Although they could not know it now, they would find the future benefits from Baalzaric’s efforts far outweighed the temporary inconvenience.

  Of course, it might be possible for them to share space with the demonic inhabitants of Kevin Williams. Baalzaric smiled to himself. It would be fascinating to know how many demons one evil little sociopath could hold.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  The night was comfortably warm but uncomfortably humid. The do-rag with the sewn-in sweatband helped. Using the night vision goggles, Jim made good time through the moderate underbrush that clogged his route from the Charger to the fence line at the northwest end of the estate.

  Reaching the fence, Jim paused and lifted the goggles away from his face. The night was not pitch-black, but it was damn close. He slipped the sleeve of his shirt up above his watch again. The faint glow of the tritium microcapsules set into the watch’s hands and numbers showed Jim that it was eleven forty-five. He had fifteen minutes to cut through the fence and make his way to the back of the estate’s main house.

  Jim pulled the sleeve back down over the watch and centered the goggles back over his eyes. Sliding off his backpack, keeping the noise to a minimum, he found and removed the fence pliers. He cut a gap just large enough for him to slip through. He put the pliers back into the backpack, pulled the sides of the breached fence apart, and squeezed through. He pulled the backpack through behind him.

  He had made a virtually noiseless entry onto the estate. He took a moment to check his weapons and Taser. Everything on his tactical belt was blacked out and secured so as not to make noise during movement. He had made himself tactically invisible. Kat and her clown posse would not know what hit them until it was too late. Neutralized or dead, it didn’t matter. His concern was getting Carl out alive, and it looked as if that would be easier than he had anticipated.

  The brush around the northwest perimeter of the estate was thicker than on his initial route, but with the night vision goggles, Jim had little trouble finding his way. He pushed though one particularly thick section and popped out into the clearing where the pool was located. Even through the green glow of the night vision goggles, the clearing and pool had the feeling of an oasis.

  Jim moved quickly and silently across the soft, lush grass that blanketed the west side of the pool. The wind blew stronger now, as evidenced by the swaying of the surrounding vegetation. Yet inside the oasis, the air remained surprisingly calm. As he looked around, the wind buffeting the adjoining undergrowth reminded him to finish this mission as soon as possible. He did not relish finding himself caught in a hurricane.

  He pushed through the wall of brush at the south side of the clearing and found himself on a narrow trail leading toward the back of the house. He paused inside the last line of vegetation and trees behind the mansion.

  Peering out from the woods, he saw that the downstairs was dark and quiet. Upstairs, a faint light flickered from a window. He moved carefully toward the east side of the house, staying inside the tree line. Three vehicles sat near the rear of the house. He recognized Kevin Williams’ van and Bruce York’s Viper. The third car looked like an Asian import sedan.

  He dashed across the clear s
pace between the tree line and the building and stopped behind the little Klingon’s van. He peered around the vehicle in both directions. The downstairs was still dark, and there was no sign of anyone moving around outside.

  Jim looked up at the upstairs window. The light threatened to overwhelm his night vision optics and he pushed the goggles up, out of the way. A woman’s silhouette appeared in front of the light. He had seen enough of Kat Connors to know the silhouette was likely hers. One upstairs, probably two downstairs.

  He crouched, then slipped past the back of the Viper and the sedan, stopping at the corner of the house. A set of steps led up to a rear entrance. Even with the wind blowing harder now, he didn’t want to try the rear door, possibly alerting Kat’s clowns and getting Carl killed. Jim moved back around to the side of the van. He would wait, hiding around the corner, until someone came out to unlock the gate, and then drop them with his Taser.

  Knowing that Williams had Carl’s gun, he expected Williams would be the one who came out when Uncle Jack arrived. Tasering Williams would be a pleasure. Then he would take care of York and Kat. After all, once he took the little Klingon out of the picture, the others would likely be unarmed. It was a good, simple plan and he doubted, at this point, that anything could go wrong.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  Although the demons that worked their evil in South Florida had little opposition most of the time, tonight they could not locate their target. Something, or someone, was interfering with their ability to both distinguish the target in the darkness and to communicate with each other. Jim Demore had dropped off their radar.