Demon Key

by David Brookover

  He flung open the front door, and a violent draft tugged furiously at the cobwebs swaying in each kitchen-ceiling corner. The candle flame was rapidly extinguished as he stepped onto the groaning wooden steps that led to the ground. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the stinging raindrops. Gunmetal skies. Still enough light to cross the swamp and easily locate the boathouse on the mainland without using the airboat’s searchlight.

  His boot descended the final step, and it splashed onto the watery ground. Big Man grimaced. The swamp was rising quickly now, thanks to the tropical storm. Tropical Storm Allan, to be precise. After three weeks of steady rain, the swamp waters had gradually inched higher, but Allan’s prolonged rainfall quickly raised levels to their highest in decades. If this shit kept up, the local roads would flood and close, and his hunting trips would be trickier. More dangerous.

  He swallowed hard. If the damn floodwaters prevented him from hunting, all hell would break loose.

  His ancient whistle suddenly felt icy against his chest. If that happened, the Everglades would become a cesspool of death. Bones, gore, and blood. Lots of blood.

  Death.

  Strangely, there was none of his customary dread at the mere notion of it being unleashed in the Everglades. No frigid tremble shivering his spine. Loosening his bowels. Raking his balls.

  That was odd, he reflected. Damn odd. Ever since he was old enough to tie his shoes, he had learned a healthy respect for it. Now, out of the blue, he found that he wasn’t afraid of it any more. He wasn’t afraid of death, either.

  What was up with that? Everybody should have a healthy fear of death.

  Shouldn’t they?

  Suddenly, he was really afraid.

  Chapter 8

  Teddi sat hunched over the notebook computer in her Coral Springs motel room. The solitary desk lamp was as dim as their investigative prospects as she pondered where to search for answers to those two all-important questions. What’s so special about this time of year? What event has occurred to instigate Charlie’s hypothetical ritual?

  Lightning illuminated the walls bordering the heavy drawn draperies and momentarily distracted her. Thunder shook her third floor room with earthquake force and rattled her pencils in the plastic tray beside the computer. Wasn’t it ever going to stop raining?

  Another flash and report. That question was easily answered. Guess not.

  She clicked on Florida Myths and Legends in the Google search space. Within seconds, a listing of over five thousand articles came up, most being advertisements for Florida. She clicked Florida Myths and read an entire article. When she finished, she sighed heavily. Too much information, and none of it pertained to the type of ritual she was hunting for. Undaunted, Teddi continued through the list.

  Ninety minutes later, she leaned back in the uncomfortable chair and massaged her weary eyes. She now had a firm grasp on countless crank Florida legends and Indian myths, but she still hadn’t advanced her knowledge about her case. And it was her case, according to Charlie, although she now had to share her jurisdiction with the arrogant Ryan and some eccentric nicknamed the Cajun Psychic.

  Her fingers combed her short blond hair. Now what? In a split second, her mind replied, take a shower. Make it a long one.

  She did. After toweling off, drying and styling her hair, and inspecting her complexion for wrinkles in the dresser mirror, she returned to the desk and her notebook computer.

  Teddi was naked. She abhorred clothes in the summer; they were too constricting. Ryan had whined throughout their marriage that it wasn’t a lady-like habit. After all, his mother had always worn clothes. She foolishly complied with his nagging to wear clothing at all times, at least when he was home. That should have been her first clue that they were completely wrong for each other. What man wouldn’t want to see his wife naked? To her, it was a turn-on. To Ryan, a momma’s boy, it was a turn-off.

  But now Teddi was free of the jerk, and free to wear or not to wear whatever she wanted – as long as it was legal!

  The shower and her newly exercised freedom recharged her mind and spirit. She reflected that it was strange that water falling outside was depressing, while falling water inside a shower was refreshing. She shrugged. Chalk up another of life’s paradoxes.

  Her fingernails tapped a catchy rhythm on the desk edge as she considered her next research move. Suddenly, the rhythm ceased and her fingers flew over the keyboard like they were possessed. In a moment, the secure FBI search screen appeared, and she hurriedly typed in her password and personal ID code. The screen changed. She entered in the pertinent details of the Broward County abductions and began the search for similar crimes. The search engine found many similar crimes, but none with the exact modus operandi.

  She continued her search with crimes against heavyset women with comparable results. Useless. She tried South Florida crime rings, South Florida kidnappings, devil worship and rituals involving human sacrifices, local fringe religions and their rituals, local Indian sacrificial rites throughout history, and unsolved South Florida crimes as far back as the middle 1800s.

  Teddi’s yawn was cut short. A single unsolved South Florida crime entry caught her eye. Interesting. Maybe even pertinent.

  Teddi picked up the phone and dialed Dex. He was still at the office, watching over the gaggle of FBI agents who had invaded his space. He immediately brightened at the sound of Teddi’s voice.

  “Thought you’d be prowlin’ the swamps up in Louisiana by now,” he said quietly.

  “I’m stalling.”

  “Don’t blame you. Now, what’s on that razor-sharp mind of yours?”

  “I was wondering if I could buy you a beer . . . or two.”

  “Throw in dinner, and you’ve got my attention.”

  “No problem. Name the place.”

  “A little restaurant named Luke’s Restaurant and Bar on Atlantic Boulevard, not far from your motel. Ain’t much to look at, but they sure as hell serve the best food around these parts, includin’ those damn high-priced, highfalutin rip-off joints.” His suggestion was smothered in sarcasm.

  “Tell me how you really feel, Dex!” she laughed. “How can I refuse an invitation like that?”

  “You can’t,” he responded. “I’ll meet you on two conditions.”

  “Name them,” she said warily.

  “One is that you leave that FBI scowl of yours at the motel.”

  “Done.”

  “And the second is that you bring a hearty appetite, ‘cause Luke don’t like people who just pick at their food.”

  Teddi chuckled. “Ole Luke won’t have to worry about me. I’m starving.”

  Dex recited the directions to the restaurant from years of practice and then checked his watch. “Meet you there in thirty minutes?”

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter 9

  Big Man squinted through the rivulets coursing down the parked pick-up’s windshield and waited for his latest quarry to emerge from the bar. Half-lit neon liquor signs filled the front two windows and illuminated the shabby exterior of the Pompano Beach tavern in a murky red glow. This was the farthest he’d ventured from his home to nab a woman, but he figured that gung-ho, FBI asshole Wilkerson would most likely have positioned his men in the seedy spots between Coral Springs and Gator Creek.

  For nearly a month now, Big Man witnessed a hefty young woman frequenting this bar during his nocturnal scouting trips. She was no doubt somebody’s low paid employee who needed to share her complaints with others down on their employment luck. This was the place to do that, all right. He grinned. And being the humanitarian he was, he was about to put an end to her misery.

  His trip into Pompano Beach had been a real bitch. Most of the side roads were under water, and the main drags were filling up fast. The sleazy bar in front of him was gradually becoming a sleazy island. Arriving patrons sloshed from the cinder parking lot to the front door, cursing the puddles. On the way out, they wouldn’t notice or care. Their wobbly strides would create
soaking splashes, and a few would fall face first into the filthy puddles, ruining their alcohol high in one sobering second.

  Big Man glowered at the unrelenting rain. The leading edge of the latest storm was past the east coast, but it left days of rain in its wake. No afternoon sea breeze storms this summer. Just one damn rainy weather front after another. If this kept up, he’d need an ark to secure his plump beauties. But that’s the way it had always been. The uncommon monsoons attracted it to Demon Key.

  Big Man dozed, then awoke with a start. He checked his watch. Four hours had passed. It was just before two. The bar would be closing any minute. The young woman would certainly be soused by now. Easy prey.

  The front door opened once more, and his target staggered outside. The rain drenched her clothing within seconds, revealing her nipples and generous fat rolls. Disgusting. He tightened his grips on the dart rifle and door handle. Showtime.

  As he pushed open the pick-up door, a figure burst from the shadows between the bar and a dry cleaning business next door. A young black man wore a stocking cap and waved a pistol in the woman’s face.

  Big Man heard the thief shout, “Give me your purse, bitch!”

  The woman was too drunk to react rationally. She hugged the dripping purse to her breasts and screamed for help. Big Man made a quick decision to rescue her. He raised the rifle and targeted the thief’s neck. The rifle explosion caught the man’s attention, and he spun around, aiming the pistol at his attacker. The dart struck him in the throat.

  The thief’s hands flew to the protruding dart as he struggled to breathe. His pistol plummeted into the puddled water at his feet. He dropped to his knees on the sidewalk, kicking and trying to scream for help.

  The drunk woman didn’t know what to make of her rescue.

  Big Man approached her and flipped his wallet open and shut. “Police, maam,” he lied. “Just out here doing a routine check for people too drunk to drive home safely. Part of the county’s drinking and driving safety program.”

  She pointed down at the struggling would-be thief. “He . . . he tried to rob me!”

  “I know. Just climb inside the pick-up, while I call for an ambulance and back up officers. You can fill out the complaint form in the truck where it’s nice and dry.” He led her to the pick-up and helped her slide onto the seat. “I’ll be right back.”

  He opened his cell phone, turned away from her, and pretended to place a call. He bobbed his head just enough so she would believe that he was conversing with someone. He kept his gaze focused on the bar’s front door the entire time, hoping that no one inside had heard her screams. But luckily no one showed.

  The thief finally stopped thrashing and lay still on his side in a fetal position. His eyes bulged from their sockets like red-veined marbles, and his thick tongue dangled limply between his parted lips, nearly bitten in half. Big Man bent, grabbed the man’s wrist, and felt for a pulse. There was none. The thief was history. He yanked the bloody dart from the boy’s throat, bent the tip, and stuffed it into his pocket. The kid didn’t weigh enough to handle the dose meant for someone almost twice his weight.

  He snatched his air rifle propped against the pick-up’s front quarter panel and opened the door. The frightened and drunk woman stared wide-eyed out the streaked windshield at the thief’s prone body.

  “I’m afraid he’s dead, maam,” Big Man informed her, as he climbed behind the wheel. He stuck the rifle behind the seat and started the ignition.

  “I thought I was supposed to fill out some paperwork here,” she whined. “And my car’s right over there.”

  “You’re too wasted to drive. Let me take you home,” he replied coldly.

  “But you said . . .”

  He pulled a dart from his pocket and thrust it into her neck. She screamed again and punched him hard in the nose. Warm blood gushed over his lips, and he licked its saltiness. The stupid cow! He seized her flabby wrist and restrained her until the dart worked its magic. After what seemed an eternity, her large body finally went limp. He let it slam against the door, then tended to his bleeding nose with a handkerchief.

  Two men stumbled through the front door and nearly tripped over the thief’s soggy corpse, as Big Man backed away from the bar. He saw them point toward his retreating pick-up as it sped away into the rainy gloom, but he wasn’t worried about those drunks identifying it. The license plates were smeared with mud, and the truck’s lights were off.

  He drove the entire distance to the airboat at or below the speed limit. It wouldn’t do to get pulled over for speeding. No, that just wouldn’t do.

  He leaned into his victim’s face. He knew she could see and hear him.

  “I’ve got a nice surprise for you, you fat sow! A little payback for this bloody nose.”

  He chortled cruelly and pressed the handkerchief tightly against the bridge of his swollen nose. Oh yeah. Miss Nose-puncher was going to love his surprises.

  Chapter 10

  Even in the downpour, Teddi easily located Luke’s Restaurant and Bar on Atlantic Boulevard. The moment she entered the modest restaurant, the deliciously tantalizing aroma of oak-grilled foods assailed her nostrils. Plastic blue and white checked tablecloths covered the dozen tables, and the worn cane-backed chairs appeared Old World and comfortable. Dex waited for her at a table in the far corner.

  Teddi watched his eyes widen at her approach. She wore a coral ribbed tank, white-cuffed shorts that broke in the center of her thighs, and blonde Sperry Topsiders. Blush pinkened her tanned cheeks, and eye shadow heightened the allure of her green eyes. Coral earrings dangled from her ear lobes and matched the shell necklace hugging her exposed neck. This wasn’t a date, but she wanted to look like a woman tonight, not an FBI agent.

  Dex stood as she sat down across from him. “You look like a million bucks. If I was about twenty years younger, I’d make a play for you.”

  Teddi tingled from the praise. It had been a long time. “You’re too kind.”

  He sat. “Have much trouble findin’ the place?”

  “Piece of cake,” she replied with a grin.

  “See you left your FBI mask at the motel like I asked.”

  “Gladly,” she said, and picked up a two-sided menu. “What do you recommend?”

  “You like ribs?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  “Then I’d go for the full slab of baby-backs,” he suggested.

  A stout man with thin black hair appeared beside the table. He wore a smudged white apron and a wide smile. “Hi, Dex. Who’s the beautiful lady?”

  She extended her hand. “Teddi McCoy.”

  “Luke Russet, like the potato,” he announced, shaking her proffered hand. “Pleased to meet you. Any friend of Dex’s is always welcome here.”

  “Thanks, I’ll remember that,” she said.

  Luke took their orders and disappeared into the kitchen in back.

  “Now, what’s on your mind?” Dex asked, as he placed the large linen napkin on his lap.

  Teddi retrieved a piece of paper from her purse, unfolded it, and handed it to him. “Read this.”

  He slipped on his reading glasses, and when he finished reading the article, he dropped the glasses back into his shirt pocket.

  “Afraid this happened before I was even a gleam in my father’s eye,” he grinned.

  “I know, but it’s the only case I could find during my Florida crime search that had similar characteristics to ours.”

  He leaned back in the chair. It creaked. “This kidnappin’ spree took place in 1856 when Broward County was mostly populated with settlers, cowboys, and Indians. Did you find any similar points that would link it to our current kidnappin’s?”

  “As a matter a fact, I did. On a hunch, I checked the same newspaper for weather conditions during those old abductions, and guess what?”

  “It rained like hell,” he guessed.

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll be damned.” He thought a minute. “You’re sure t
hat there weren’t any other crimes listed in this neck of the woods between then and now?”

  “Nope.”

  Luke planted two frosted mugs of beer and a loaf of warm French bread in front of them and vanished again.

  Dex scratched his clean-shaven chin and took a swig. “Strange. What would heavy rain have to do with some nut going on a kidnappin’ binge?”

  Teddi downed half her mug with one pull. The cold beer was just what the doctor ordered to take the edge off of bumping into good ole Ryan earlier. “You’ve got me. There were eleven women reported missing during those heavy rains, and none of them was ever seen again. No happy homecomings or dug-up skeletons.”

  “Big women?”

  “The article didn’t address that detail, and I couldn’t track down any more information about those abductions off the Internet.”

  He scratched his chin again. “Maybe I can help you out there, Teddi. I just happen to know the descendants of the owners of that newspaper. It’s defunct, you know.”

  “I guessed as much. I never heard of the Everglades Press.”

  Luke appeared with a tray of steaming ribs, cole slaw, and crispy crinkle-cut fries. The slathered, smoky-red barbeque sauce glimmered under the ceiling lights.

  “Anything else?” Luke asked.

  “Another round of beer,” Dex replied.

  “Coming right up.”

  “Where do those newspaper descendants live?” Teddi asked, draining the last swallow of beer.

  “Funny thing about that. Jessie lives in a mobile home park right outside Gator Creek.”

  Her brows arched. “How convenient.”

  “Very. Now let’s dig in before our ribs get cold.”

  And they did, but only after he swore on his mother’s grave that he would visit Jessie the next morning.

  Chapter 11