The Palm Reader

by Christopher Bowron

  A female voice answered immediately. “Lee County Dispatch.”

  Mason adopted a Southern accent. “Yes, ma’am. I’d like to report a break-in. My name is Jack Walker.” He gave the woman the street address. He drove back a ways, just close enough to see the Walker street entrance. Within ten minutes, two Lee County sheriff’s cruisers could be heard, lights flashing in the distance. Mason smiled as they squealed onto Ibis Lane a minute later. The Russian needed to be tortured and left to bleed, but Mason didn’t have the time or the strength to pull it off. He would leave him to his fate with the law. Every now and then, the law did come in handy.

  He decided some prep work was needed and headed back to the McFadden Estate.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  PERRY WAITED AT THE dock, a mooring line in hand. His eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped when he saw the bullet-riddled window.

  “What the fuck, bro? You’re keeping bad company.” When Janie frowned, he added, “Except for you, Janie.” He didn’t really know Janie very well—only met her at a survival party he’d thrown for Jack jointly with Josh and Gramps.

  Jack turned off the engine and scampered to the side of the boat to help Perry. “Fuckin’ tell me about it, Perr! There’s some bad shit going down. Thanks for doing this.”

  “No problem. He said you could moor here till . . . whenever. He cleared it with Randy. Can I say something? No, I’m gonna say it anyway. You look like shit!”

  Jack nodded. “I feel like shit! As if I had the flu these past few days, on top of everything else.”

  Perry only nodded.

  Doc Ford’s was owned by a successful author, Randy Wayne White, who wrote Florida thriller novels. He was one of Jack’s favorites and they’d gone fishing back in his Florida Gator days. Jack felt as if he were in the middle of one of Randy’s stories. He shook his head.

  The three stepped up to the bar, where Jack gave the boat key to Ron, who smiled and gave Jack an upward-facing handshake. Ron eyed his arm. “Shark get you?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Watch my boat, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll put the key in Randy’s office. You look like you need a drink.”

  Jack looked over at Janie. She nodded encouragingly. “Three double tequilas.”

  Janie, Jack and Perry all downed the fiery liquor. Jack looked to Perry. “Can you drive us to Estero to pick up Janie’s car?”

  “Sure. But—”

  “No buts!”

  “I figured you’d say that, Jack. Let me just say, when you left me on the sidelines last time this kind of shit happened? I swore I’d never take a back seat again if I got the chance to help you. Who would figure it would happen again? Where you going?”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Tampa.”

  “Tampa?”

  “Yep. Listen, I’ll give you the deal once we get in the car.” He looked around. “The walls have ears. And I don’t want any responsibility if anything happens to you.”

  Perry smiled. “I’m a chef. Nothing exciting happens to me. I’m in.” He gave both of them a fist bump.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  BORIS REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS as he was being duct taped. He was a savvy operator and knew he stood no chance while the man remained in control. He let him finish his business and waited an extra few minutes just to make sure. Boris knew he didn’t have much time. He did not know why, but he had survived this long trusting his instincts.

  He reached for his boots; he kept a small throwing knife in each one. It took him a couple of minutes to cut the tape around his ankles, and at least five more to maneuver the knife to cut his wrists free. As he bore the pain, stripping the tape from his face, he considered how the diminutive Frenchman would have to suffer.

  Hearing a loud knock at the front door, Boris scurried through the side door to the lanai and snuck over to the neighboring yard. His keys were gone, as were his money and phone. He slipped to the front of the house next door and watched what was going on at Walker’s place.

  Two Lee County sheriff’s cars sat out front. The officers at the front door rapped another time. Boris looked longingly at his Beamer a couple hundred feet down the road; he had hidden a concierge key under the chasse. One of the officers walked around the house. He heard the other on her remote radio.

  Waiting until both left the front of the building, Boris jogged across the street, back to the sports car. He retrieved the key and started the engine. The car purred as Boris deactivated the headlights. He backed to the end of the street and around the corner in the dark. Once out of eyesight, he turned the car around and the lights on to make his escape.

  ****

  Coincidentally, Boris used the same public phone Mason used several minutes ago, only he dialed Aversions. Eli would not want to take a call from a payphone. It took some time for the boss to get on the line.

  “Boris, what in shit is happening?”

  Boris took his time recounting the events of the evening.

  “I can't trust you to shit now, Boris? Get back here before you fuck something else up.”

  “Yes, Eli.” He hung up. There were no other words to be said. He’d failed. He must face the consequences. He expected no less. Getting back in the car, Boris headed to the highway.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  “YES, I WOULD LIKE you to come to this address. The more strength you can bring, the better. It will be a powerful incantation. If you can find a Priest or Priestess all the better. Yes. I will have everything ready.” Mason put the cell phone back on the car’s consul as he turned into the McFadden driveway. He moved the old gate to the side, this time leaving it open. It would be difficult enough for his guests to find the place.

  He parked the car beside the workshop and retrieved the supplies he had bought: candles, chalk and incense, mostly. He had already secured his live sacrifice. The old swamp hummed, like a massive beehive of nocturnal life. Mason opened the door and dumped the bags on the floor. He walked over to the cupboard and opened it. Blinking at the light, the old man did not look too good when Mason woke him up. “Are you okay, Nathaniel?”

  Gramps, thankful Mason hadn’t gagged him, spat out a dusty response. “Okay? Are you for real?”

  “Point taken. Anyways, we will be having some guests soon. I thought you might like to keep me company while I put out the decorations.”

  “Sorry, I’d rather rot in this hovel. I couldn’t care less about your party.”

  “You will be the guest of honor.”

  “I decline the invitation.”

  Mason smiled. “You have spunk for an old guy.”

  “Something you’ll never know, Matye. You keep bad company and your god is a sham.”

  “Is that a curse?” Mason laughed. “I didn’t think that Indians laid curses anymore.”

  Gramps turned his head away from the man.

  Mason grabbed his legs and cut all the bonds. “Come with me.”

  Gramps stood. His legs felt like they might buckle under him. Mason led him into the main room of the shed, which still held many of the stuffed animals prepared by Jimmy McFadden. “Sit!” Mason pointed to a moldy couch.

  Gramps scrunched his nose up and sat.

  “I’m going to cuff you to the side table. Hold still.”

  Gramps didn’t move as Mason produced a set of cuffs probably more suited to S and M than serious incarceration. He realized Mason was a bit of an amateur. He may have been the grand poo-bah in the Church of Satan, but he didn’t know what he was doing when it came to the dirty work. Gramps would watch and find a chink in his armor.

  Mason cleared a large space in the center of the massive room. Then, he took out a three-foot-long case, which had been already lying on the floor. He opened it and Gramps saw a very large extendable compass and extendable yardsticks. “Tools of the trade.”

  Gramps ignored him. He felt dirty watching the man.

  Mason put the point of the compass in the middle of the floor. He drove home the nail with a
small mallet and extended the device to its maximum of five feet. He placed a piece of divine chalk in the other end and walked the chalk around to make a perfect twelve-foot circle. Folding up the compass, he put it back in the case. He then took out a bag of chalk powder. He said a short prayer over it and spread the chalk around the circle. Gramps swore he saw the man sprinkling threads of hair into the chalk. He stood in the circle and prayed in a language that Gramps couldn’t come close to understanding, though he finished with a Latin ode to his god.

  “Ave Satanas.”

  When he finished, Gramps said, “Does that make you feel safer?”

  Mason smiled. “From your type, no. From the spirits, yes.” Mason continued to plot out a pentagram using an assortment of mathematical formulae and, once again, the compass. Once finished, he performed a cleansing prayer, placing unlit candles at the five corners of the star.

  Gramps couldn’t help himself. “A lot of crap for a false god.”

  Mason didn’t take kindly to the jab. He promptly walked over and smacked Gramps’ head. “Your insolence will not help you when it’s time to kill you; I may choose to use a dull knife.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Mason. What do you plan on doing to me?”

  “To you and your grandson, Nathaniel. You and Jackson will become sacrifices to the one true god: Lucifer. Just like your Abraham did on the mountain.”

  “He’s not my Abraham.”

  “Then who is your god?”

  Gramps kept prodding. “Are you that stupid you can’t remember I’m a Native? I believe in an all-encompassing god, a god who is one with nature. Not a one-sided abortion like Lucifer. I think the bunch of you are being hoodwinked. Your sect relies on bullying and coercion. Lies.”

  “And Christianity hasn’t done the same?”

  “Good point! However, I’m not a Christian. I believe in some of the Christian tenets—the ones supported by good people.”

  “Good people,” Mason sneered. “Highly overrated. I know many Satanists who are good people.”

  “Are they an anomaly? I don’t know how you can say this with a straight face. You know what you are. The fact that you’re plotting to sacrifice Jackson and I is not . . . good. You worship the Devil, Satan and Lucifer. They are noted evil entities.”

  “There have been more wars in the name of your god in the past 3,000 years than that of Satan.”

  “A weak argument, Mason. Christianity is the same as Satanism, used as a scapegoat for ulterior motives. It’s not the religion; it’s the people behind it. Christianity has had its problems, but there has never been any doubt of the motivation behind Satanism. I understand the Left-Hand Path, the right to free thought. The problem is, that’s an open-ended premise allowing for . . . bad things. There’s no better way to explain it. Everything you Satanists do is in parody of the Christian faith. Is your god so jealous he can’t come up with his own pomp and pageantry?”

  “A typical Christian response, though I will give you the credit of understanding the Left-Hand Path. All religions borrow from one another, Nathaniel. The Christian Church was created by a bunch of messed-up, drunken Romans who jumped on the bandwagon of a new trend. They chose which scriptures, which ceremonies to keep. I will admit, it was probably one of the most successful marketing endeavors made in Western humanity. Look at the wealth of the Roman Catholic Church. It’s gross. Millions of faithful followers living in poverty around the world.”

  Gramps laughed. “I told you this once, and I’ll not say it three times. I’m not Christian, and I, too, am not a fan of Catholicism. I’m a Native American shaman. I am my tribe’s spiritual leader. I understand your religion well enough, as I do the Christian faith. I see what goes on in my dreams. I’ve seen you in my dreams. You are not good. I hate to say this to you, but you are not. So, let’s cut with the bullshit. My people are a peaceful group, as are 99 percent of Christians. We are small. We believe in the natural way of things. What you espouse is not natural, so keep your bogus concepts to yourself. You will not sway me. If it makes you feel better telling me all of this, then I pray for your soul, Mason. There are a few bad Christians, let’s face it, but most of you Satanists have malice and anger in your souls. I don’t care how or what you choose to call it. You are bad people.”

  “We preach a way of life. A life of greater fulfillment. Freedom to do what one wants.”

  Gramps turned and stared him in the eye. “Exactly. If everyone thought this way, there would be no law, only chaos, which is an evil tenet. Freedom is earned; it’s not a right. My people, the Seminoles, earned our freedom. We were persecuted, hunted down twice by the United States government in South Florida. We survived. I don’t know, it seems like you feel that you are owed something, Mason. The American people have been fighting wars to ensure the country’s freedoms since its independence, another worthy cause, and I’m proud to say I am an American as well as a Native American. What you plan to do tonight takes away my freedom. Mason, what gives you this right? I don’t see the Christian Church gathering prominent individuals within society, imprisoning them to use as human sacrifices. Think about it, you twisted, dirty little man. Who does this kind of thing? Evil people.”

  “I grow tired of this, Nathaniel. You have your point of view, I have mine. We can banter back and forth for days and it will not get us anywhere. The fact is, you are going to die as soon as I can lure your grandson here, plain and simple.”

  “That proves it. You are evil. Your personage oozes it. Please tie me up and put me back in the cupboard.”

  Mason laughed. “No. I want you to watch the process of your demise, old man. Your fancy words will do you no good where you’re going.”

  Gramps caught Mason’s gaze. “You are a little man, Mason Matye. You are trying to take advantage of your deity. I don’t think any god would like such behavior. Personally, I think at the root of it, Satanism gives you an excuse to do bad things.”

  “No excuses, Nathaniel, and you don’t know the half of it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  JACK WAITED IN THE car with Perry as Janie went into the CVS to buy bandages and disinfectant for Jack’s wound. When she returned to the car, she tended to what amounted to a long scrape.

  “You are damned lucky,” Janie said, stuffing the used packaging back into a plastic bag.

  Jack looked at Perry. “You sure you want to do this?”

  “No fear here, bro. Tell me what needs to be done. I would not miss this for the world.”

  “Start driving toward Tampa. That’s a good place to begin.”

  “I’m on it.” Perry pulled onto Summerlin and headed to the highway.

  Janie poked Jack’s arm from the back seat. “Do we have a plan?” The words came out with a haunting aura of déjà vu. She remembered asking Josh the same question when they attempted to rescue Jack from the clutches of the McFaddens. At that time, Josh had no idea what he intended to do. Jack differed, in that he knew what needed to happen but didn’t have a clue how to accomplish it.

  Thinking about her question before answering, he said, “I do, actually. Obviously, we get to Aversions. Perry will drop us off. I don’t want you coming in with us.”

  Perry frowned. “In where?”

  “There’s an old garage in the back of the strip club. I suspect there’s an underground access to the place. They use it to move things, people, in and out of the establishment without being seen. Illegal strippers, dead people, who knows? That’ll be how they got Gramps in there. I bet they have a section cordoned off from the rest of the place where they make and distribute their movies, drugs. I’m sure they have their own server and the computers with the pornography stored on it down there as well.”

  Janie spoke. “You seem awfully sure of yourself. They’ll have surveillance on the garage, and you know it. How do we get around that?”

  “Good question.”

  Perry said, “I know a little about surveillance cameras. We have them at the restaurant. It’s mos
tly on the doorways in case we’re broken into, so you can see who did it. It’s recorded. If that’s the case, you put on a hoodie or a hat to cover your face so they can’t see who you are.”

  Jack frowned. “That’s fine if there’s no one monitoring what’s going on. I bet they have the place wired with dozens of cameras. They want to see what’s going on in the back rooms, to make sure their girls are safe. I’m pretty sure they have a swingers lounge as well. The patrons need to feel safe. The sick bastards probably film and sell what goes on even back there.”

  Janie tapped Jack’s shoulder again. “You’re not going to leave it to chance, then. We need to figure out how to get in there without being seen.” After a few moments of silence, Janie clapped. “I’ve got it! Maybe we want to be seen.”

  Jack laughed. “Great idea, smoker girl.”

  “Hey, I haven’t had one in two days. Thanks for reminding me. No, seriously, if we can’t get rid of the cameras, why couldn’t we distract or redirect what they’re looking at for a time?”

  “Okay, I’m listening,” Jack smiled.

  “What would happen if you just walked in the front door?”

  Jack looked at her, frowning; obviously he was uncomfortable with the proposition.

  “Eli and his thugs would be onto you like flies on shit. I’m sure if they’re monitoring the activity inside the place, the focus would shift to wherever the point of interest might be. Jack Walker steps into the front foyer, I guarantee the cameras or at least the attention of the person watching the cameras would be on the front door. I don’t doubt Eli Romanov spends some of his time spying on the goings-on there. If we time the distraction, Perry and I could get in the back through the garage. I’m sure I remember a man door on the side of the building. If it’s being recorded like you suggested, Perry, no one is going to look at the tape unless there is a reason to check back on the recording.”