Demon Key

by David Brookover

  But it was going to be the most elaborate mystery he had ever tackled.

  Chapter 31

  As the airboats roared toward Demon Key, a dense silver veil shrouded the water and looming trees on the small island. The pilot pointed out the cypress, bay, and willow silhouettes peppering the key to Wilkerson, who was the closest passenger to him and the only one within the sound of his shouted spiel.

  “I heard this used to be a beautiful spot before them damned Swinsons settled here,” the pilot explained. “Rookeries and orchids abounded, but the Swinsons drove off the birds and killed the flowers.”

  Wilkerson wasn’t in the mood for a guided tour. He wanted Swinson. “How much farther?” he asked curtly.

  “On the other side of them trees, we’ll find the main house. Beyond that, I just don’t know. I ain’t been out here for thirty years, and even then I got run off by a couple shotgun blasts,” the pilot replied.

  Dawn lightened the black sky to sooty thunderheads, and the rain continued; Wilkerson was drenched to the bone despite his rain slicker. Where the rain didn’t soak him, his perspiration did from the oppressive air.

  The boats slowed, and Wilkerson watched a wide dock emerge from the mist.

  “The boats’ll put in on either side of it,” the pilot announced. The old man motioned for the pilots to head toward the dock.

  Wilkerson kept a wary eye out for their quarry, who would no doubt be armed. The boats slid to a halt on the reedy shoreline, and the pilots cut their engines. The sudden silence was staggering.

  Wilkerson spoke into his radiophone. “Let’s go for it, but keep a sharp eye out for the perp. Remember, he’s armed and dangerous.”

  Splashes and surly grunts punctuated the first wave of agents and deputies to disembark. Dozens of snakes swam in serpentine motions across the wind-agitated surface toward the waders, but they were met by fiery blasts from two flamethrowers. Flames whooshed across the murky water and into the thick reeds and turned back the aggressive serpents.

  The old airboat captain ducked beneath the blade housing. “Hoppin’ hellcats, what you boys tryin’ to do, burn down the damned key?” he shouted angrily.

  Wilkerson patted his shoulder. “Self-defense, old-timer. I heard about all the water moccasins out here, and I wasn’t taking any chances with the safety of my men.”

  “Should’ve worn snake boots,” he grumbled.

  Wilkerson jumped onto the rickety dock and led the way up a broken stone path that sliced through the stand of interlaced trees and the impenetrable, vine-choked underbrush. Several agents tripped on cypress knees protruding from the ground that were obscured by the unusually high water and the low ground mist. Groans, splashes, and curses filled the air.

  The deputies, agents, and SWAT team members all wore protective Kevlar-lined camouflage vests. Just in case. Wilkerson was extremely skilled at mission preparations and rarely missed a detail.

  Until today.

  The SWAT snipers encircled the single-story, rot-blistered house two hundred feet west of the dock. The mist swam beneath the house and around the stilts like a living entity, as rainwater cascaded from the tin eaves like a silvery cataract. The windows were all shuttered, and there was no sign of life.

  Wilkerson slipped his phone headset beneath his hood and clipped them into place over the top of his head. He called the pilot in charge of the three helicopters that were orbiting the key.

  “What have we got here?” Wilkerson demanded.

  “A house — more like a shack. No connections to outbuildings, but there is a huge pole barn due west about another fifty yards,” the pilot replied.

  “That it?”

  “No, I see a small cemetery on a hill another hundred feet beyond the pole barn. There’s a brick mausoleum at the top of the hill, and what appears to be grave markers all around it. I can’t tell if anyone’s out there. The fog’s too damn thick.”

  “Can you drop lower?”

  “Sorry, sir. We might hit a tree. That’s all I’ve got for you except that . . . there’s . . . nothing but swamp as far as the eye can see.”

  “Goddammit, run an infrared thermal scan on the house, then do the same with the pole barn! Find me that perp! I want to know where he is yesterday!” Wilkerson shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” the lead pilot responded nervously.

  Two blue herons and a flock of egrets took flight from Wilkerson’s shouting. Sheriff Stark and the SWAT leader, Jeriff, frowned at his reckless outburst, but Wilkerson was too caught up in the moment to give a shit how those two rated his field actions.

  Minutes slowly passed as the small force awaited further orders. Finally, Wilkerson’s radio crackled, and he answered it immediately.

  “Where’s our perp?” he demanded from the helicopter pilot.

  “Uh, I’m afraid we didn’t get a warm-body reading in either location, except for small animals.”

  “Well, this guy isn’t a goddamned small animal!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Scan the whole damn island and get back to me.”

  Wilkerson turned to Stark and Jeriff. “We’re going in,” he told them brusquely. “Jeriff, have your snipers ready for immediate back-up.”

  The muscular young man with an unshaven face replied with a sharp nod.

  Wilkerson and a dozen agents broke from their cover behind several waving scrub palms and proceeded cautiously through the open area and up the stairs to the front entrance of the house. Before Wilkerson could direct one of his men to kick the door in, Agent Jensen twisted the doorknob. The door swung in on creaking hinges, and Wilkerson shot the agent a you’re-out-of-line scowl, but didn’t reprimand him.

  Jensen shoved the door open wider until the knob collided with the wall behind it, allowing the gray daylight to diffuse the darkness beyond the threshold. The opening leaked a fetid malodor that instantly sickened the men. They fell back, pinching their nostrils and gasping untainted air.

  Unfazed, Wilkerson remained in the doorway, listening.

  Silence. Not even the burbling of an aquarium or the ticking of a clock. Nothing. Dread knotted the agents’ stomachs. Most had never been involved in the arrest of a serial killer-kidnapper, and they were apprehensive about what horrors they might encounter inside. Decayed and mangled body parts were foremost in each agent’s mind, except for Wilkerson. He’d been involved in seven such arrests, and his sensibilities were calloused against such atrocities.

  Wilkerson stepped into the gloom and gestured to the others, and they briskly entered and scattered to secure their flanks. With their guns drawn and battle-ready, the men donned their night-vision goggles and advanced deeper into the menacing house.

  Chapter 32

  An ambulance rushed Teddi to Holy Cross Hospital near Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, where she was quickly admitted without the typical red tape. Dex and Jackson insisted she be placed in a private room, and a phone call from Charlie Simmons in Washington to the hospital’s CEO heavily reinforced that request.

  Within ten minutes of her room assignment, three stoic FBI agents were stationed outside her door. An FBI medical team familiar with the dart poison was quickly flown in from Miami by helicopter, and they immediately seized control of her medical care from the local emergency room doctor and staff.

  Once the doctors had tested and treated Teddi and left, Dex slouched uncomfortably in one of the plastic chairs in her room and examined the radiophone Wilkerson had given him before they boarded the airboat. It was standard issue — nothing to get excited about.

  Jackson stood beside the window and stared pensively into the dreary weather. Teddi was in a coma, but her eyes were frozen wide open and were hauntingly lucid.

  The FBI doctor, Les George, was a short, wiry man with a full black beard and intelligent gray eyes. He had painstakingly conducted a few rudimentary tests on Teddi earlier and had determined that her senses of sight and hearing were fully functional.

  Dr. George had pulled the two men aside. “In
other words,” he whispered, “be careful what you say and do around Teddi. She will remember any comments or actions that you make.”

  Dex grunted and sat back in the hard chair, while Jackson leaned over the bed rail and gently held her hand.

  “Thank you, Teddi.” He smiled down at her. “I’m pleased that you had enough faith in me to come to the high school, but I’m sorry that things turned out this way for you.” He bent down until his lips brushed her ear. “I’m leaving shortly. There’s some unfinished business I have to take care of. You won’t see me around here again. When you recover, look me up. You know where I live.” He kissed her cheek.

  Jackson turned to Dex. “What made you come back to the school?”

  Dex cleared his throat. “I guess I figured that old Bo would be too bright to get caught with his pants down on that skinny little key of his ‘cause he’s one smart cookie. He was more than likely up to no good in town, so the high school was as good a place as any to start lookin’ for him.”

  “I appreciate your trust. Thanks.”

  Dex’s face was stone. “For what? I was just following a legitimate lead, that’s all. Strictly business, you understand.”

  “Then I admire your tenacity.”

  Dr. George stepped into the room. “I hate to interrupt this love fest, but you two have been here long enough. I can’t be tripping over you two every time I move around. Why don’t you grab a bite to eat downstairs in the hospital commons, and then hang around the first-floor lobby afterward? I’ll send word down to you as soon as Teddi perks up.”

  “The guards stay,” Jackson stressed.

  “Of course. No problem.”

  “How long till our girl comes to?” Dex asked.

  The doctor turned to Dex and shrugged. “Depends on how large a dose she received. If her kidnapper calibrated the dosage for her size, then maybe it’ll wear off in a few hours. If he injected her with the same measure of poison that he administered to his three hundred pound victims, Teddi may not snap out of it till early evening.”

  Dex pivoted. “Well, Jackson, what do you say?” But Jackson wasn’t there — or anywhere inside the room.

  “Where’d he go?” Dex asked the doctor.

  Dr. George looked perplexed. “I didn’t see him leave.”

  Dex ran to the door and poked his head into the hallway. Jackson wasn’t in sight in either direction. He sure as hell moved fast!

  He closed the door, grabbed his raincoat beside his chair, and then froze. The FBI radiophone was gone. Now why in the world would Jackson need that radio?

  Suddenly, Dex knew.

  Jackson returned to the motel suite, gathered his things, and paid the bill at the front desk. He phoned the private hangar and arranged for his charter plane to fly him back to Louisiana at ten that night. Then he contacted Charlie Simmons and requested that an FBI helicopter drop him on Demon Key as soon as possible. He would be at the staging area alongside the flooded Sawgrass Expressway in thirty minutes. Charlie promised to have a chopper waiting for him.

  As the limo cruised through the flooded surface streets, Jackson leaned back and closed his eyes. There were way too many questions that needed answering. If Bo Swinson knew about the FBI raid on his key, and Jackson was certain that he had, then why didn’t he run? Instead, he carried out his plan to kidnap a female student from Crystal River High School. When he saw Teddi on the school grounds, again instead of retreating to safety, he attempted to kidnap her, despite Jackson standing fifty yards away with an unobstructed view of the crime. Didn’t Swinson know his odds of getting out of there were slim?

  Nothing seemed right about this case. On the surface, it appeared as if Swinson wanted to be caught — or worse, killed in the attempted abduction. Was he suicidal? Stupid? Dex didn’t think so, and Jackson trusted Dex’s instincts. Then what was it? The answer had to be on Demon Key.

  He stuck his hand into his pocket and withdrew the necklace Swinson had given him. He inspected the small bamboo flute-whistle, turning it over and over while trying to decipher the strange figures painted on the ancient wood instrument. Jackson was familiar with Egyptian hieroglyphics and other cuneiform symbols, but these were completely unknown to him. Stumped, he slid the necklace back in his jeans pocket.

  He looked out the rain-splattered limo window and watched the FBI helicopter descend to the ground beside the green tent Wilkerson had erected on a flat highway embankment. Empty Suburbans, SWAT vans, deputy sheriff cruisers, and powerful pickups with attached airboat trailers were crammed into a confined area of flattened grass and mud furrows.

  Jackson sighed and shut his eyes again. He hated flying in helicopters, much less being strapped in a harness and lowered to the ground from one. Choppers were too unstable; they were dangerously susceptible to fluctuations in wind direction and velocity. But he didn’t have a choice.

  Suddenly, large, terrifying orange eyes sprang open in the dark recesses of his memory and jolted him from his reverie. He fervently hoped that he didn’t run into the creature with those savage eyes on Demon Key.

  He dashed from the limousine to the helicopter, his clothes fluttering violently from the rushing air beneath the whirling blades. As he jumped inside and pulled the door closed, the hair prickled on the base of his neck. The trip was a return of sorts to his Demon Key psychic vision, and he was frightened of what he might find there.

  Death and monsters.

  This time for real.

  Chapter 33

  By the time Jackson unbuckled the harness and watched it climb back toward the winch inside the helicopter, Wilkerson was standing beside him in shin-deep water, his gaze boring into Jackson’s.

  “Who invited you to the party?”

  “Charlie Simmons. Know him?”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, LaFevre.”

  Jackson gestured toward the house. “Find anything in there?”

  “You mean like Swinson?”

  “No, Swinson’s dead.”

  Wilkerson laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, right.”

  Jackson briefly relayed the events at Crystal River High School.

  The agent’s face blanched, and the sudden absence of wind left his egotistical sails drooping. “Dex shot him?” He looked at his feet, incredulous. “I wondered where the son-of-a-bitch had disappeared to.”

  “Well, now you know. I’m going to have a look inside the house, if you don’t mind.”

  “Would it make a difference if I did?”

  Jackson grinned. “Not really.”

  “There’s a rotten stench inside there. I’d have second thoughts about searching the place, if I were you.”

  “Have you located the source of the smell?”

  Wilkerson stiffened. What was LaFevre driving at? That he didn’t know how to conduct a search, for chrissakes? The pompous bastard! “No, and we went through everything with a fine-tooth comb, but you’re welcome to check it out for yourself. You might try the basement first,” he said with disdain.

  Jackson turned away and approached the closest SWAT team member. “Mind if I use the gasmask clipped to your belt?”

  “Nah, go ahead. I guess I won’t be needing it,” he grumbled, frustrated at the lack of action. He helped Jackson adjust the head straps until it fit snugly to his face.

  Jackson sloshed through the water, keeping an eye out for snakes, especially the poisonous variety. He climbed the steps to the unsteady landing and entered. The FBI had strung ceiling lights throughout the inside, powered by a relatively quiet portable generator under the house. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves and began his search.

  The FBI agents had stripped the rotting oak desk in the corner, the tables, and small bookcase of anything pertaining to the case. He moved on. A double bed and a six-drawer dresser completely filled the small bedroom. Next came the narrow kitchen with warped oak cabinet doors, a propane refrigerator, a Formica table, two chairs upholstered with ruptured red Naugahyde, a propane stove with a dented coffee pot perched over
one of the burners, and a double-wide sink with an old-fashioned hand pump at one end.

  The closets were lightly populated with stained, threadbare clothing, while the pantry held mostly canned foods. Jackson checked the expiration dates on the can labels — most had expired long ago.

  The sofa with badly sagging cushions occupied the center of the living room, along with a now-empty gun rack, a desk, two tables with oil lamps, a listing leather recliner, a mildew-mottled leather ottoman, and a new flat-screen plasma television with rabbit ears taped to a windowsill.

  Jackson paused. Everything but the television pointed to an electric-free house. Then where was the generator? He searched the small interior again, including the filthy bathroom with a discolored lion’s feet tub. Nothing. He inspected the television and noted that it was plugged into an extension cord, not a normal outlet. The cord protruded from a crudely cut, jagged hole in the wall like an orange tongue sticking out from a mouthful of broken teeth.

  Jackson lightly tugged the extension cord, and the resistance came from upstairs. He glanced at the ceiling. He hadn’t found an attic entrance, but that had to be where the generator was.

  He checked every nook and cranny of the downstairs rooms, but he came up empty. Exasperated, he searched the house from the outside, ignoring Wilkerson’s scowls until the solution became obvious. The outer kitchen wall was a little thicker than the other walls in the house. He snapped his fingers and shot Wilkerson a wide grin.

  He reentered the house, opened the pantry, and tapped the wall backing the shelves. Hollow! He probed the edges until he located a cleverly hidden spring lever tucked inside a shelf support. He pushed it up, and the wall swung out noiselessly, revealing a dark, narrow staircase. Jackson directed his flashlight into the pitch-black attic and slowly began his ascent.