They knew that the preacher and the girl were together in her apartment, but an impenetrable wall existed between them and the interior of her dwelling. The strength of her relationship with Adonai created a spiritual force field around her life. Demon princes had assigned dozens of lesser demons to harass and tempt her since she first made her confession of faith in the Nazarene. They had had little success. She maintained her relationship with Adonai on a daily basis, reading his accursed book, fervently praying, and fellowshipping with other believers. The demons hated her.
When Saffi left the apartment with the old preacher, the demons watched from a distance. They heard the prayers of the two God-lovers going up to heaven as the two walked toward Saffi’s car. The connection became obvious. They were praying for Jim Demore, and their prayers were powerful enough to influence the spiritual world. The demons could not find Jim because these two were mucking up the heavenlies. They had to be stopped. While Saffi and the preacher prayed in earnest for Jim Demore, in their haste, they had made a gross tactical error. They had recruited no one to pray for them. The demons went to work.
***
“Hurricane party,” the red-headed kid said. “I got some righteous weed here, man. Truly primo stuff. The folks went to Orlando to see my Gram and ain’t no way they’re driving back in a hurricane.”
“I thought we were saving that stuff for something special, like the first time we get laid,” his friend said.
“Man, that could be weeks or months. Even years, dude. What better way to ride out the hurricane than getting stoned, drinking beer, and playing video games? And what better place than my folks’ place on the beach?”
His friend smiled. “Could be cool. Yeah, hurricane party. I like it.”
“Well, grab a case from the fridge. We got a brand new game console and a 60” ultra-HDTV at the beach house, and I got Special Ops: Kill ‘em All 4 and Grand Theft: Road Rage 6. If we leave right now, we could be sitting across from Ft. Myers Beach in less than an hour.”
“Yeah, and if we toked up as soon as we leave, we could have a good buzz on before we even get there.”
“Cool. I’ll grab my old man’s keys,” the redhead said. “It’s going to be a hell of a party.”
***
Saffi drove and both she and Uncle Jack prayed aloud. They prayed for spiritual covering for Jim as he made his way toward the de la Garza estate. She prayed for God’s grace and mercy as Jim risked his life for his friend. She prayed that God would use this opportunity to open Jim’s heart to the truth of the gospel. She and Uncle Jack prayed for everything, except themselves.
Little traffic shared the road as Saffi drove east past the freeway. The road narrowed to two lanes and then curved southeast. The wind battered the sedan. No rain yet, but heavy, black clouds foreshadowed the storm bearing down on Florida’s gulf coast.
Her car’s digital clock said eleven forty-five. They had fifteen minutes to be at the gate. They would stop for a few seconds to switch drivers a couple of miles from the estate.
Up ahead, the high-beam headlights of an oncoming vehicle bounced wildly above the pavement. Saffi suspended her prayer for a moment to concentrate on the oncoming vehicle. High intensity Xenon light flooded the interior of Saffi’s car.
Uncle Jack opened his eyes. He stopped praying for a moment as he shielded his eyes from the light.
And for that moment the two prayer warriors found themselves unarmed.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
The redhead shoved his dad’s Best of Ozzy Osbourne CD into the truck’s player. He liked driving the old man’s truck. It was an older truck, an ‘83 GMC Sierra Classic with a six-inch lift kit that looked like crap on the outside. But it had a rebuilt Vortec V6 with a 4-barrel carb and a decent CD/mp3 stereo system. Ugly, fast, and loud.
Unfortunately, the restoration money had run out before his dad got around to upgrading the stereo, so the system did not include a GPS. The result being that the boys had been lost for close to an hour, driving on the back roads somewhere east of Ft. Myers, the product of a “really good” short cut.
By the time they found the road into Ft. Myers, the weed had kicked in full force, and they’d downed a six-pack. The redhead was rocking with the radio screaming out the words to “Flying High Again.”
The music’s driving rhythm offset the usual slo-mo effect of the pot and beer. The truck flew around a curve at twenty miles over the speed limit, the redhead oversteered, and they crossed the double yellow line into the path of an oncoming car.
At the last possible second, the redhead jerked the steering wheel to the right and the truck flew back into its own lane. The oncoming sedan went to its right, hit the soft right shoulder, and rolled three times, landing upright against a stand of young trees and thick brush.
***
The demons assigned to the two party boys watched from the back of the pickup truck as Saffi’s car left the road and rolled repeatedly until it came to rest at the bottom of a ditch, flanked by the road on one side and by the tree line on the other.
The truck swerved back to the right and skidded to a stop in the middle of the dark highway.
The demons were sure that even if someone actually survived the crash, they would be in no condition to interfere with Prince Baalzaric’s plans. They had accomplished their mission and destroyed the prayer covering provided by their master’s enemy. Now it was time to reap the rewards of their newest human relationships.
They doubted that Baalzaric would mind if they took advantage of this unexpected opportunity to expand his influence into the intoxicated bodies of these two boys. After all, didn’t all demons have the same goal? To expand Lucifer’s kingdom in the human realm and having a good time doing it?
***
“Shit, man. What happened?” the glassy-eyed passenger asked the redhead.
“Dunno, bro. I saw lights.”
“Yeah, cool. Close encounters, dude.”
“Yeah, cool, but, I got a feeling we need to get the hell out of here.”
The redhead shifted the transmission back into drive and stomped on the accelerator. The rear tires spun for a moment and suddenly gained traction. Ozzie and the redhead now sang about going off the rails on a crazy train and the boys flew on toward Ft. Myers, chattering about the possibilities of close encounters with low-flying UFOs and video games improving reaction times.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Saffi did not know how long she had been out. Her car was not running, but the headlights were still on. A deflated airbag hung from the center of the steering wheel. Squinting out through the fractured windshield, she could see that the car was off the road, but she was not sure how far off. Her face hurt and she felt something dripping from her nose. She needed a tissue and reached for the glove compartment. That was when she noticed Uncle Jack.
His face looked peaceful, as if he had fallen asleep the way people sometimes do on car trips. But something was wrong. His neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. It was obvious that Uncle Jack would not be doing anymore praying tonight, or any other night, for that matter.
Tears flowed as she opened the glove box and took out a travel-sized package of tissues. She wiped her eyes and then her nose. She looked at the ball of tissue. It was stained bright red. Crap. God, what else is broken?
She took more tissue, twisted it into two plugs, and pushed a plug up each nostril. It hurt like hell and Saffi assumed that the air bag had broken her nose. She reached up, pulled the driver’s side visor down, and opened the lighted makeup mirror. The light came on and revealed a blackening eye and her bloody and broken nose. Okay, not pretty, but not dead either.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to organize her thoughts. The throbbing pain in the middle of her face distracted her. Suddenly dizzy, she tried to suppress the urge to vomit. No luck.
She managed to shove her door open, get her seat belt unbuckled and lean out of the car before she emptied her guts. When she was finished, she spit
as much as she could, before her mouth went desert dry. She wiped it with a tissue and threw the tissue out the open driver’s side door. No time to worry about litter laws. Saffi looked in the mirror again. Saffi, you have to do a better job with your makeup.
She looked over at Uncle Jack. The one comfort she had was that he had not suffered. She also had the assurance given to all born-again believers that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord. However, while that assurance was comforting, it did nothing to help with her current situation.
She needed to move. She could not just sit in the car with a dead man. She opened the door again and stepped out. The wind blew hard and the world spun madly.
Saffi opened her eyes. She was on her back, staring up at the dark sky, seeing hundreds of black shadows streaking past. Her first thought was of the need to get to Oz ahead of the flying monkeys. No flying monkeys in the Bible, Saffi. No Oz either.
Slowly, conscious reality came home. She dragged herself to her feet. Not Oz. The estate. Get to the estate. Help Jim.
Her body reluctantly obeyed her brain. She half-walked, half-stumbled up the side of the ditch to the road. No yellow bricks, no Oz. Nonetheless, somewhere ahead, down the dark road, there would be a wicked witch.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Jim pulled his jersey sleeve back over his watch. Eleven fifty-five. In five minutes, the end would begin for the three dirtbags inside. He slipped the night vision goggles back down over his eyes.
The wind blew stronger. Even with the storm approaching, the weather had stayed warmer than usual, but he felt a sudden chill and just as suddenly, his sense of optimism vanished and something dark and sinister pressed down around him.
A bright flash erupted above him as the sky discharged its store of highly charged particles. A thick bolt of lightning crawled down from heaven and hit the lightning rod attached to the estate’s roof. The intensely white light turned his night vision into night blindness. A second electrical charge slammed into his neck, below his right ear.
He felt the strength leaving his body as his muscles reacted to the electrical disruption of his central nervous system. As he collapsed, his muscles contracted in uncontrollable spasms. Jim thought how being struck by lightning was similar to being tasered. It wasn’t until he was on the ground and the little Klingon’s face was inches from his own, that he realized what had happened. By the time he recovered from the effects of the Taser, someone had cuffed and gagged him. Another pair of hands helped him to stand.
“Holy shit,” Bruce said, “we got the bastard.”
“Shut up and get him inside,” Kevin ordered.
Kevin and Bruce manhandled Jim toward the back of the house. Jim’s mind fought the reality of what was happening. Something had gone badly wrong. The brain fog created by the Taser’s effects slowly cleared. His mind raced. Oh, man. You really screwed the pooch.
Kevin held on to Jim, while Bruce opened the back door. Jim’s muscles stiffened as he began to resist, but Kevin easily forced him through the door. Kevin’s strength once again surprised Jim. Unnatural little freak.
The rear door led into the estate’s huge kitchen. Off to the right was a set of stairs leading up to a dark void. Kevin steered Jim through the kitchen and formal dining room. Bruce walked behind them holding a red chemical light stick that gave off just enough illumination to keep them from stumbling into anything. As they moved him from room to room, it surprised Jim to see that the house was still fully furnished. The red light stick reflected off the plastic dust covers that protected the furniture, creating an eerie, red glow that reminded Jim of a cheap carnival funhouse version of hell.
In the middle of the front room, Jim saw Carl, still gagged, and still tied to the chair he had seen in the video. Carl’s eyes opened wide when he saw Jim. He continued to stare at Jim as Kevin and Bruce steered him into the living room. A light at the top of the stairs, leading to the second level, drew Jim’s attention, as well as that of Kevin and Bruce.
Kat stood at the top of the landing, holding a lit candle. Somewhere in the house, a window must have been open. A breeze caused the candle, Kat’s hair, and her sundress to flutter. Jim stared as Kat came down the stairs, taking her time, drawing out the moment. The light from the candle suppressed enough of the red glow from the chemical light stick to create a soft band of light around Kat. It was if an angel had switched sides and was now stepping confidently out of the bowels of hell.
***
What Baalzaric saw pleased him. Although Demore had the look of a capable warrior, he was, after all, simply another example of why Adonai would never succeed in establishing his kingdom on earth. God’s strongest allies were weaker than the weakest demon, and unallied humans like Demore were the weakest of all. At least in the spiritual realm.
While God did have some powerful assistants in his so-called holy angels, there appeared to be some nexus between prayer by the worshippers of the Nazarene and the appearance of God’s horde of holy sycophants. A lack of prayer apparently equaled a lack of hope, and a lack of help.
Baalzaric did not understand the connection between prayer in the name of Jesus and its powerful effect on the spiritual world, but he did know that God foolishly followed his own restrictive rules. Whenever Baalzaric or his minions were able to interfere with or disrupt the prayer of Adonai’s people, things went much better for Lucifer’s side.
Demore stared up at Kat. Baalzaric read Demore’s hostility. Tangible hatred. Baalzaric liked the feeling. Demore’s eyes burned with a hot, blue flame, ignorantly unaware of the hopelessness of his situation. The shield of prayer that had initially given him an advantage had been broken.
Demore was screwed. Figuratively, and possibly, physically. Baalzaric would allow Kat to have him. That is, if Demore was smart enough to save himself by yielding to her, and, by proxy, to Baalzaric. Of course, if Demore was too stupid or too proud or too self-righteous to surrender to life’s natural pleasures, then he would surrender his life. Either way, Baalzaric and Kat would win.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
Jim watched Kat come down the stairs. A field of radiant light, an almost angelic aura, surrounded her. The situation was beyond surreal. In spite of his tactical advantage, Williams and York somehow had gotten to him before he could get them. It was as if someone had dropped him into some bizarre story written by Kafka and filmed by Fellini. None of this made any sense.
Yet, as a cop, he knew people sometimes found themselves in bizarre, unbelievable situations. How did the victims of serial killers feel during their assault and murder, knowing that they weren’t going to escape? Did they fight to the end, or did they simply surrender to the inevitable? How did it feel to die?
Jim remembered a saying from a book that he had read while recovering from his war wounds. They can kill you, but they can’t eat you.
With these freaks, he wasn’t so sure the last part of the saying would remain true. He decided that when the time was right, he would fight. They may kill him, but he would do everything he could think of to free Carl, and to inflict as much pain as possible before he went under. That was his promise to Carl, to himself, and even to God.
“Bring him upstairs,” Kat commanded.
She turned and went back up the stairs herself. Bruce put his left hand on Jim’s shoulder and his right hand between Jim’s shoulder blades, simultaneously shoving and steering him toward the stairs. Jim’s body stiffened in resistance and he was surprised at the strength in Bruce’s hands and arms. He almost felt that if he stopped and refused to move, Bruce would simply pick him up, throw him over one shoulder, and carry him the rest of the way up the stairs.
Jim had known a few overweight guys that looked soft, yet had a thick layer of muscle under their body fat. But, even the little Klingon, Kevin, had seemed unnaturally strong. Saffi had warned him back at her apartment that demon-possessed individuals could have unnatural, even superhuman, strength.
He tried stopping half way up the
stairs, but Bruce’s right hand slipped down to Jim’s belt and Bruce lifted him onto the next step.
“Just keep moving,” Bruce ordered. “I don’t know why she wants you, but she does.”
Bruce’s voice sounded raspy and irritated. The gag kept Jim from doing little more than grunting in reply.
“We can always Taser him again if the big prick doesn’t cooperate,” Kevin hissed.
From the sound of Kevin’s voice, he was right behind Bruce. A plan of sorts formed in Jim’s mind. He did not have time to explore all of the potential consequences if he failed. There was a time to think and there was a time to act. Jim acted.
***
Saffi stood at the edge of the road, buffeted by the wind. No moon, no stars, no light, no hope. No headlights in either direction. She decided that the safest thing would be to jog along the pavement. From what she had seen in her car’s headlights, and felt through the car’s tires and suspension, the road surface was in good condition. She would be able to cover the remaining mile or so to the estate in ten to fifteen minutes. She was sure that when her car didn’t pull up exactly at twelve midnight, Jim would realize something was wrong. She believed he was smart enough to have a backup plan that would keep himself and Carl alive. She took a deep breath, stretched a little, and then began jogging along the edge of the pavement. Not willing to leave things to hope and chance, while she ran, she prayed.
***
Jim had an idea. An imperceptible whisper of a notion rising up from somewhere deep in his being. The lizard brain demanding survival. It reached the surface as a single, definitive word. Now.
He flexed his knees. An almost indiscernible movement. He felt Bruce’s grip respond, but it was a second too late. Jim used every bit of his leg strength to push himself backward, crashing into Bruce. Completely unprepared, Bruce made the mistake of trying to hold on to Jim for balance. Both men, almost five hundred pounds of human anatomy, crashed down on the little Klingon, following behind Bruce.
The Demon Pool Page 34
