Jackson wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about the morning call with Gramps, but Josh probably heard the tail end as he woke up. “What did the old man want?”
Jack chose his words carefully. His assumption that Josh unintentionally eavesdropped seemed correct. “Something silly about another dream. Said he saw some dark force rising up from the swamp to stab me.”
Janie raised her eyebrows. Josh cut in before she could say anything. “I know what you’re about to say, Jack. Before you deny the reason for his call as mumbo jumbo, let me point out that the man is never wrong. At least, never that I know of. You may not need to take it literally, but let’s agree to be a little more careful for the next few days or even weeks.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that.” Jack looked as if he meant it. “Hey, I’m sorry I jammed the party last night. I’m a little touchy about the accusations—presumptions, whatever—about all of this paranormal shit. I’ll be upfront with the both of you. I would love to believe it all to be true. It’s almost like believing in God. I want to be able to believe in it all; I really do!” Pausing for a moment, Jack collected his thoughts. “I don’t want to rely on it, though. I don’t want to look the fool. I don’t want to put us in a bad spot because of some false belief which can’t be substantiated.”
Josh nodded. “Fair enough. It’s hard to put faith into something you can’t see or touch. I’d have to disagree about the God part, though. Faith in God is more of a spiritual thing, a parable-oriented belief. Folks can have faith, but they’re not going to go out and do something drastic in the name of God, like order a subpoena against Eli Romanov because they believe it’s what God wants them to do. That would simply be stupid—blind faith.”
Janie placed her cup on the table. “I think you’re both wrong. Your grandfather is in touch with his inner instincts. It could be some sort of paranormal ability, or maybe he’s simply in tune, and his intuition is really good. As Josh says, he’s not been wrong! You can pretty much go to the bank with that. Now, on the other hand, what if he does have this supernatural . . . psychic ability? Does it really matter as long as he’s always correct?”
Jack canted his head to the side. “Okay?”
“What’s the difference? We have to take heed.” Janie tried to end the controversy.
“You guys are killing me. Gramps seems to think I have the same ability. Maybe it’s that assumption I’m fighting. Maybe I don’t want to become . . . the witchdoctor. I don’t want to. It ain’t happening!”
Josh put his hand on Jack’s forearm. “No one says you have to, bro. No one says you have to pray. Personally, I do, but for altogether different reasons.”
Jack chuckled. “Yeah, you pray you don’t get cirrhosis of the liver.”
“Na. I don’t drink much. Maybe lung cancer. Those are choices, though. I don’t see much reason to pray for something that’s under my control. I pray for your soul, Jackson. I pray for mine and for Gramps. And for Janie’s.” He clinked coffee cups with her.
Jack sighed. “I guess it’s a good thing someone’s praying for me. I need all the help I can get. Since when did you become an fucking Bible thumper?”
“Really? You can’t remember going to church with my mom when we were little kids? I’m no thumper, but I do have faith. That’s all.”
Jack blew out a long stream of hot coffee breath between his lips to relieve some steam. His phone rang.
“It’s Pete. Hello?”
“Jack. I just got off the phone with the district attorney. She told me Lopez’s car was found at a car dealership in North Ft. Myers. He made an appointment to meet with a salesman. The salesman had his brains blown out on the sidewalk outside the dealership. Lopez was nowhere to be found.”
Jack thought for a moment. “Is there a bill of sale for his car?”
“No. But the car is still parked outside. One of the other salesmen recalls Lopez asking to see the dead salesman, whose last name was Henderson.”
“What do you make of it?”
“Not so sure. I want you to check it out. I also have to tell you the place is thick with cops and it would be best if you did not draw attention to yourself.”
“How the fuck am I going to do that? You want us to look into it, right?”
“Janie will know what to do.”
“Okay, boss.” Jack hung up.
Janie jumped right in. “What did he have to say?”
Josh scrunched up his brow. “Robertson, right?”
“Yep!” Jack made an evil face. “Peter said Janie would know what to do.”
Janie smirked. “Cream rises to the top, Jackie boy. Now, what did he really say?”
“Just what I said, except for the fact that Robert Lopez left his car at a dealership in North Ft. Myers, where, conveniently, a murder occurred. The salesman Robert was supposed to meet had his brains blown out in front of the dealership.”
“Jeepers. And where is Robert?”
“No sign of him. Peter says the place is crawling with cops.”
“And he said I’d know what to do,” Janie smiled.
“Yep.”
“Let’s think about this.” Josh wanted to ruminate on the facts.
When Jack opened his mouth to speak, Janie held her hand up to silence him. “Off the top, why would he be at a car dealership?” She kept her hand up, anticipating a stupid comment. “Why would he want to sell his car? Now, the only reason I find this important is because he’s no longer attached to it, apparently. And it’s not sold, and I gather there isn’t a contract to sell, or at least a commitment. This would all be ordinary stuff but for the fact the salesman got whacked.”
“This is totally fucked up!” Josh shook his head as he lit up a cigarette, offering one to Janie. She accepted and took a light from Josh’s pink Bic.
Jack nodded. “They don’t teach this kind of stuff in law school.”
Janie interjected, “Let’s remember, you are a criminal lawyer and this isn’t a simple real estate deal. I haven’t been on a case in twenty years that didn’t require some out-of-the-box thinking. My gut tells me our client is trying to make a dash.”
Jack sipped his coffee, placing the cup on the table gently. “I agree—the first thing that popped into my head.”
Josh couldn’t help but ask, “So, why isn’t he dead?”
“The one thing I’ve learned over the years is these situations don’t happen the way they’re supposed to. Why whack the salesman? Maybe Lopez is dead,” Janie answered.
Josh suggested, “Maybe it was supposed to be Lopez that got shot.”
Janie nodded. “Maybe he did but was carted away. But by whom?”
“The Russians,” Jack offered.
Janie nodded. “That’s the easy answer, and maybe the most logical. Logical doesn’t always measure up, though. There is the possibility another outside agency, like City Productions, might be involved.”
“I think this would be the time to get the subpoena to search the strip joint up in Tampa. Before they can start a shell game.”
“That’s if they haven’t already dumped him in the swamp. What if Robert is the killer?” Janie said.
Jack paused before he said, “Possible, but I can’t see why he’d do it. There’s more to this than we’re going to be able to figure out sitting around this table. Okay, Pete said you’d know what to do.”
Janie rested her chin in her hand, deep in thought. “I think it’s time to talk to the police, or the DA. Unless you’re thinking of going back to Aversions in Tampa. We can’t just walk into that place again or we’ll find ourselves dumped in the swamp.”
“Unless they didn’t know we were there,” he smiled.
Janie frowned. “I also don’t see what good it would do going to the dealership. We have to hope we can get access to today’s criminal report once the Hillsborough Sheriff’s Department is finished with it, and that could take weeks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE CURSE ON JACK Walker placed, Mason meander
ed the dark streets to retrieve his car from a remote parking garage. New Orleans, as always, served its purpose. Time to move on; it would be important to do so. The whore in the hotel would be found in the morning when the cleaning staff entered the room. The Witch would disappear. He trusted the anonymity and secrecy promised by Moses. He wasn’t positive what methods were used by the peculiar man to dispose of the body and collateral evidence. But really it didn’t matter, because Mason Matye no longer existed. The Satanist smiled. It seemed strange but oddly liberating to be dead.
Now, he would put an end to Jack Walker and his family, taking his time, relishing their pain. By the time he finished with those whom Walker loved, family and friends, the curse would have rendered Walker weak. Controllable. He planned to torment the man so that in the end Walker would pray to Mason for Hell. Mason lamented that the McFaddens were already dead. They would have been eminently useful. Those bastards could hold a grudge, and they knew how to torture and kill . . . very well.
He wondered what became of the old estate where the demented brothers once lived. Perhaps he could find some use for the veritable house of horrors, although he doubted that idea would become a reality. The estate had most likely been demolished, but, then again, places that housed atrocities often became fallow. No one wanted to live in the home of dead serial killers; the place would be stigmatized. The first thing he would do when he arrived in Ft. Myers would be visit the old estate.
The Church of Satan created a new identity for him: James Pincton, complete with ID, driver’s license, bank account and credit cards. The cult had its fingers in all levels of government, including the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. He’d offered the hooker cash, and thus there was no paper trail from the hotel. There was the slightest of chance of tracing his fingerprints and DNA back to Mason Matye, but he no longer existed. Such tracking would take time and some serious detective initiative. The cult member who’d changed places with him should have gone through spontaneous human combustion. Whatever remained or did not remain erased Mason and any connection to the living world.
He left the city, heading toward the coast where he picked up I-10, which would take him through Mobile, Alabama, then on to the Florida Panhandle and down to Ft. Myers after picking up I-75 in Lake City.
Mason didn’t especially like driving. He preferred flying when possible, but it was not in the cards for the time being. Anonymity was the order of the day; there was freedom on the open road. When he stopped for gas in Tallahassee, he stretched his legs and wondered what kept him from changing his life’s direction. He could disappear completely now that he’d become James Pincton. It was only a fleeting thought. It didn’t matter. The Left-Hand Path, the road to Satan, had him firmly within its grip. Vengeance on his mind, his resolve unflappable, he would kill Jackson Walker.
****
He started to nod off after picking up I-75 and pulled into a rest area. He slipped out of the car to walk for a minute and shake off the cobwebs. He sauntered past an SUV, a young family—parents and two kids—who had the same idea. He felt tempted to warn them against stopping late at night like this, as there were sure to be scary people driving the highways looking for just such an opportunity. He’d certainly killed his fair share. Enough to warrant being branded a serial killer, if they only knew.
Mason smiled as he approached, the father ramping up his wariness, human survival instinct kicking in at the sight of the stranger. The moment he let his guard down, Mason resisted the urge to growl or jump at the man. Foolish. In his day, he’d seen many families such as this collected and offered up as sacrifices to the Dark Lord. They would disappear, their relatives wondering, for decades, What happened to them? Then there were the self-styled Satanists who simply killed such families, leaving all traces of the grizzly event. An act of terror. They killed in the name of Satan, with no true connection to the Dark Lord. They masked their brutality under the guise of Satanists, but they were simply sick individuals with no right to the claim. Mason resented such self-stylists, who gave Satanists a bad name. He smiled coyly.
Turning when he reached the end of the sidewalk, he walked back to his vehicle. He passed the little family again, walking between them, their belief that he no longer presented a threat strong enough to let him walk between their children. Fools. If he weren’t in a hurry, he would have found a way to torment them. To teach them a lesson they’d never forget.
He slipped back into his car, plugging his newly-acquired iPhone into the glove compartment jack. He googled freeradiosatan.com, a twenty-four-hour talk show preaching the tenets of the Dark Lord. He had little problem staying awake once he tuned in.
****
The sun rose above the trees lining the highway median as he crossed the Caloosahatchee River, the waterway forming the northern border of Ft. Myers. His eyes ached. The drive through the night was long, straight and boring. Walker lived on Ft. Myers Beach. He debated whether to rent a room on the island or somewhere close by. He decided to find a basic hotel room in Bonita Springs, near the south end of the beach.
After a short nap, Mason booted up his new computer, one of his many requests. He found there’d been a lot of press on Walker over the years: his football career with the Florida Gators, followed by the Cincinnati Bengals, and then the fiasco in the Everglades, which tragically led to Mason’s capture. Strangely enough, it was Walker’s high school football press that offered up the most information. Mason found names of several relatives, Nathaniel Portman in particular. He remembered Walker’s grandfather at the McFadden estate that night. That old man would pay for his connection to Jackson. A closer look at the news clippings from that night led him to a few more names: Josh Portman and Janie Callaghan. Both were pictured with Walker celebrating his rescue from the clutches of Jimmy and Isaac McFadden.
He cross-referenced the three names for their places of residence and was able to locate Nathaniel’s and Janie’s, but not Josh’s. He planned on visiting Everglades City tomorrow to see the old man, but not before he took a look at Walker’s home. He needed to extend the power of the curse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE DRIVE BACK TO Tampa seemed an eternity, broken up momentarily when Boris stopped at a hardware store to purchase plastic ties. He made sure Robert Lopez was bound and gagged in the trunk of the BMW before he regained consciousness. Boris shook his head over the gray and lifeless face of his nephew, tucked in beside Lopez. The episode had been messy and Boris didn’t look forward to talking with Eli. His boss didn’t like unplanned contingencies.
Pulling the car into a large, freestanding garage behind the main building at Aversions Tampa, he waited for the automatic door to close before getting out of the Beamer. Walking back to a large work bench with a slotted tool board behind it on the wall, he unlatched a catch holding the bench in place. He pulled one end of it toward him. A section of the wall and the bench swung out from the end of the garage, revealing a secret staircase leading below the main building. The entrance was used for several purposes, many of them clandestine. Eli liked it because it allowed him to slip in and out of the establishment without being seen.
Boris hefted Lopez out of the car, dropping him to the ground. He appeared to be conscious, though the blow to the head seemed to have done some real damage. He lay in a semi-comatose state. His leg wound also looked nasty. Boris brought Leo’s body downstairs first. There were two levels to the basement. The uppermost housed the normal everyday workings of the strip club—storage, furnaces, Eli’s fake office and dressing rooms for the girls. The lower basement was a totally different world, concealed below the ground. Only Eli and Boris had access to “the bowels,” as Eli liked to call the area where the filming took place, the actors sometimes never seeing the light of day again, young and old alike.
Boris placed his nephew’s body in the room he used to prepare bodies for disposal. He laid him out on the long wooden table; the corpse lay in a semi-fetal position, already stiffening from rigor morti
s.
Boris then retrieved Lopez, hefting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. He took him deep into the heart of the place. It was a secret dark space where Eli long ago constructed a hidden lockup. From time to time, they detained individuals who’d crossed the line, which often happened in their business. He doubted Lopez would be of any use to Eli, but it wasn’t his decision to make. He pressed a pressure-sensitive panel on a concrete block wall, activating another hidden doorway. Boris pulled open the heavy stone door, entering the dimly lit hallway beyond.
The corridor was sterile and devoid of any decoration. It housed three cells along the left side, thick iron bars separating each cage. Boris steered well away from the first cell. A woman with wild red hair and what could loosely be called lingerie sat cross-legged on a cot along the far wall. Her eyes, black as coal, followed Boris as he tossed Lopez onto a cot in the far cell, leaving a vacant cell between the woman and new prisoner. Boris cut the bonds and locked the door behind him as he exited.
While the woman kept her eyes on Boris, he never acknowledged It. That’s what Boris called her: It. She could be cruel. He and Eli didn’t quite know what to do with the creature. Boris was sure they would have to shoot her one day, but Eli insisted on keeping It. He wouldn’t let her go. They were both of the mind that creature would seek revenge for her forced confinement. Boris shook his head and walked out of the corridor, the thing hissing at him as he closed the heavy stone door.
****
When Eli returned from Tallahassee later that evening, Boris waited for him in his lower basement office, the real office, a bottle of vodka open. He’d taken a couple of drinks—nothing that his large-framed body couldn’t handle. He’d needed it after getting off the phone with his sister. She’d been devastated with the news of her son’s death. Boris lied, calling the death a workplace accident. In reality, it had been, but he made up something much softer, more acceptable.
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