During his three brief trips to his office, he had to push through a noisy horde of aggressive reporters looking to interview the man who shot and killed Bo Swinson. Questions flew at him like machine gun bullets, but he passed the buck to good ole Special Agent Ryan Wilkerson. He even spelled the agent’s name for them. Despite the annoying situation, siccing those bastards on that crumb Wilkerson felt damned good. Clear down to the bone.
The agent cleared his throat. “Dr. George would like to see you upstairs outside Special Agent McCoy’s room.”
When the two stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, Dex was surprised to see Jackson speaking with Dr. George.
“Didn’t think I’d see you around these parts again,” Dex said, extending his hand.
“Neither did I, but something came up,” he replied evasively, shaking Dex’s hand.
“Now, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have some bad news,” Dr. George stated.
Both men frowned. What now?
“We ran some blood work to isolate the toxin in Teddi’s system, and I’m afraid it’s not the same chemical that your dead perp used on that black boy in Pompano Beach.” He slipped on a pair of wire-rim reading glasses and scanned the brief list of identified substances in Teddi’s toxic analysis report. “There’s one substance present in the poison that is totally unknown to us. We’re checking the worldwide databases, but that will take time. However, there are chemicals that we do recognize. One of them is a hallucinogen, and the other a powerful narcotic found in Mickey Finns.”
“The knock-out stuff you add to a cocktail?” Jackson said.
“Precisely.”
Jackson shuffled his feet nervously. “What ingredient could cause a major side effect like . . .”
“A coma?”
“Right,” he agreed, although he was fishing for another response.
“No. In the lab’s expert opinion, the unknown component is responsible for Teddi’s condition.”
“If you don’t know what the toxin is, then how can you treat it?” Dex asked.
Dr. George released a prolonged sigh. “We can’t really. If I prescribe a drug that negatively reacts with an unknown substance, Teddi could possibly die,” he answered grimly.
“So we’re up Shit Creek without a paddle,” Jackson summarized.
“I’m afraid so, although I wouldn’t have put it quite that way,” Dr. George agreed, his sense of propriety assaulted by the crude remark.
“Any other possible side effects?” Jackson persisted. Like mental telepathy?
“There’re too many unknowns here for me to speculate.”
Dex stepped in front of the doctor. “Teddi is going to wake up, right, Doc?”
Suddenly Jackson gasped. A pallid, ethereal apparition sat on the wall beside them, listening. It was Teddi, or at least it appeared to be her!
The other two followed Jackson’s stunned gaze, but saw nothing.
“Get back in your room!” Jackson hissed through clenched teeth.
“Why? So you guys can talk behind my back?” she retorted, but she “popped” out of sight like Samantha from the classic television show, Bewitched.
Jackson turned his head and smiled sheepishly at his companions. “Sorry, I thought I saw someone.”
“Teddi?” Dex asked, his eyes incredulous.
“On the wall?” Dr. George exclaimed.
Jackson chuckled. “No, no, of course not.” He rubbed his eyes. “I think I just need some sleep. It’s been a long time between winks.”
The doctor rolled his eyes and immediately dismissed the incident as pitiful lunacy. “So . . . can you handle your shift for watching over Teddi? I really need some shut-eye myself.” Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled around and walked swiftly down the corridor to the nurses’ station, his heels clicking sharply on the white tile floor.
Dex tugged at Jackson’s arm. “We need to talk.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”
“Now!” The police chief hesitated. “I saw her, too.”
“Mind telling me what’s going on?” Dex insisted, after they purchased coffees and sat at an isolated table in the vast hospital commons. “And don’t try bull shittin’ me. I’m not as easy to bamboozle as the doctor.”
“I know that.”
He squinted at Jackson. “Well?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
Dex leaned closer. “You’re stalling.”
Jackson dropped his gaze to the floor. “I am.” He coughed and raised his head. “Teddi’s been using mental telepathy to speak with me, but upstairs we both actually saw her.”
Dex merely nodded.
Dex’s poised reaction puzzled Jackson. “Don’t you find the mental telepathy bit a little strange?”
“I sure would,” a feminine voice proclaimed beside them.
Teddi’s apparition materialized in an empty chair at their table. Both men jumped, startled. She was dressed in a faded blue hospital gown.
“You guys going to stay down here all day? I could really use some company,” she chastised them.
“We were just . . .”
“Don’t talk out loud, Jackson, or people will think you’re a nutcase. Talk to me with your mind.”
“Will that work for me, too?” Dex asked her.
“Sorry, but I can’t speak to you mentally,” she replied. “I can hear you talk out loud when I’m in this state.”
Jackson avoided staring at her when he spoke mentally. “And what state is that, exactly.”
“Sort of an out-of-body experience. I thought you knew that.”
“I’m not one of those psychics.”
The chalky apparition laughed. “You mean a back-alley psychic? I guess I had you pegged all wrong.”
Jackson cringed.
“Why him?” Dex interrupted gruffly. “How come you can only get in his mind?”
“He’s the psychic, remember?”
Dex folded his arms and sulked.
“How’re you feeling?” Jackson asked, unable to make sense of this phenomenon.
“Like shit. I have this terrific headache, and my arms and legs tingle. It feels like I’m tripping on that hallucinogen Dr. George mentioned. Everything’s so surreal.”
“Hopefully the drugs will wear off soon.” Jackson forced a grin. How is she doing this? Logically, her newfound ability defied reason. No drug he’d ever heard about was capable of producing such an incredible effect. There must be someone manipulating her, but who?
“That wasn’t a very flattering line of reasoning,” Teddi snapped at Jackson. “Look, I had faith in you, and look what happened. Something in the drug Swinson injected me with did cause this Gypsy psychic power. Nobody’s pulling my strings.”
“Stay out of my private thoughts!” he replied angrily.
“Wish I could, but I’m hardwired into your crazy noggin.”
“Then sever it now!”
She gave him a nasty half-grin. “No can do. I don’t have the know-how.”
“Then I’m leaving.” Jackson scooted his chair back. “This investigation’s over for me. Stopping Swinson was all I signed on for.”
“It’s not over, Jackson — not by a long shot.” Teddi’s apparition looked at Dex, who had only heard one side of their conversation. “We’ve got big trouble ahead, Dex.”
He glanced at her. “We’ve got our man. What else is there left to investigate?”
“I keep seeing these huge killer orange eyes,” Teddi confessed.
“I told you to stay out of my head!” Jackson warned her.
“I wasn’t in your head. I saw them in Swinson’s mind before he died.”
Dex studied Jackson questioningly.
The apparition straightened. “You’ve seen them, too, haven’t you, Jackson?”
“No,” he lied weakly.
“Liar.” She rested her chin on her hand. “Hmm, you couldn’t have seen them today out on Demon Key,” she said thoughtfully. “O
r else you would’ve told Dex.”
“Just forget it, okay?” Jackson implored her.
“Not a chance.” The airy fingers of her other hand drummed noiselessly on the table. “Ah ha! I’ve got it! You saw them in your vision at the motel.”
“What if I did. They have no relevance to this case.”
“The hell they don’t!”
Jackson stood. “Nice to have met you, Dex. I’m headed back to Louisiana tonight. Good luck with our lady.”
Dex leaned back in his chair. “It’s been interestin’ around here since you arrived, I’ll say that much. Don’t worry about Teddi. I’ll take real good care of our girl.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
“Jackson, you can’t leave us now!” Teddi shouted into his mind.
His brows arched. “Give me one good reason why I should stay.”
“This case isn’t over. In fact, it’s just getting started.”
Jackson threw his head back and laughed. “You’re repeating yourself.”
“Look, I don’t know exactly why this isn’t over. It’s just intuition. I wish I could offer you specifics,” she responded. “Maybe it’s Ike’s Indian folklore.”
“That’s only superstitious mumbo-jumbo.” He paused. “Not good enough, kiddo. See you ‘round.” He left the hospital and settled into the back of the limousine.
“Drive me to the airport,” he instructed the black-capped driver, and closed his weary eyes. The rain pounded the roof like a wild pony stampede. Thunderous lightning speared the ground every half-minute, escalating his angst.
Once Jackson’s chartered plane was cruising through the peaceful, cloudless skies above the Gulf of Mexico, he chilled out. He was out of range of Teddi’s mystifying telepathy, and his mind was his own private domain once more.
Teddi’s intuition had hit the bull’s-eye. Something was rotten in Denmark, or Gator Creek in this case. Their investigation was far from over.
He’d lied to Dex and Teddi in the hospital, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker, because they scarcely knew him. He grinned. Charlie Simmons wouldn’t have chomped that same bait. The FBI assistant director was well aware of his bayou friend’s relentless curiosity. Too well at times. Charlie would’ve instinctively realized that his old fishing buddy would never abandon so many loose ends.
Jackson had ostensibly fled Gator Creek to move on to another assignment, but he actually needed to escape spying eyes and minds — he still believed there was someone else responsible for Teddi’s comatose state. Swinson’s real killer. The one who had set the kidnapper up at the school for the fall.
Jackson kicked off his shoes and propped them on the facing seat. When he dug up a few more answers, he would return; he fervently hoped that he wouldn’t be too late.
Chapter 37
The monstrous creature floated in the blackness swathing the modest lake below the Swinson mausoleum. The massive muscles in its powerful tail were strangely wilted, and its senses were dulled from hunger, but it managed to perceive the changing of the guard. Its nostrils acknowledged the scent of its new provider above the lake, but it still felt disorientated. The new provider failed to supply it with food.
Hunger pangs aroused its primordial hunting instincts. The long tail moved sluggishly from side to side as it again checked the shore for another meal offering.
Nothing.
The tail flopped angrily, and the violent splashes echoed eerily in the dark. When its hunger ultimately escalated to a savage rage, it would abandon its lake home and pursue its new provider.
And hunt for food along the way.
Lots of it.
Teddi lay alone in her hospital room in the dead of night, staring at the antiseptic white ceiling. She was completely bored — brain dead. If someone would only play an audio book for her, it would certainly help pass the time.
Dex had left for home last night after keeping her company. She attempted in vain to speak to Jackson, but he was beyond the limits of her new ability.
Her only companions at this hour were the nurses who changed her bedpan — how embarrassing — and Dr. George, who definitely wasn’t a conversationalist. He checked her, probed her, and recorded the data from the monitors beeping beside her bed, but that was the extent of his social skills. No cheerful good morning or how are you doing today, Teddi? His eye examinations made her self-conscious, but there was no way she could avoid his detached stare.
God, how much longer was this damn coma going to last?
She tried not to think about how those poor conscious women felt while Swinson mutilated their bodies. It must have been beyond horrible, but she couldn’t dwell on it. Imagining their terror would only serve to drive her over the edge.
She was approaching that mental status fast enough without the horror stories.
Dex jumped out of bed early the next morning after a restful sleep, arrived at work before the reporters began their daily vigil, and made a strong pot of coffee. After the hot water finished dripping through the coffee grounds and filter, he poured himself a cup of the black poison and stretched out behind his desk. He reread his scribbled notes describing his visit with Ike Noonan, and then rechecked the old newspaper articles. Nothing new, like he figured. He scanned his notes concerning the local Indian monster sighting in the Everglades during the flood years, but they didn’t lead him anywhere, either. He needed substantial facts. Indisputable ones that actually led somewhere.
If the Indians were correct, and Dex hoped to God they weren’t, then his top priority would be to track down and dispatch the so-called monster before it could begin its killing spree. Hell, maybe it had already killed some people, and nobody had discovered the bodies yet. But, with all the nasty storms this spring, most people were smart enough to stay clear of the swamp — he hoped.
Dex drained his coffee mug and slipped on his plastic-covered hat. It was time to consult an expert about this Indian legend, and he knew where to find one.
The Coconut Creek Casino.
Unlike Dex, Jackson hadn’t slept at all that night. Instead, he chose to mine the government databases for information on the Swinson family of Demon Key, and he didn’t discover much. But he remained optimistic.
The last family entry listed in the Florida census records was for Edward and Hilda Loggins, circa 1840. A furniture maker and a housewife. There were no further records of any kind. No kids. No connections to other Swinsons throughout the country.
Jackson explored the IRS and Census Bureau files, too, but came up empty. It was almost as if the Swinsons didn’t exist after 1900. He glanced absently at the shallow, dark pool at the bottom of his wineglass and the blackened stub of his Cuban cigar. What had he missed?
He yawned and peered outside. The dawn broke gray and ominous. The slow-moving upper-level low that had dumped nine inches of rain across South Florida the past few days was headed up to Louisiana. He wasn’t certain that his psyche could handle more rain and its accompanying gloom.
He ran credit reports for the last name Swinson, but none resided in Florida. Another dead end. He stood and paced the area in front of the large window. He watched Zeus chase a nutria rat through the high grass along the riverbank, barking and snapping at the large rodent’s tail.
Jackson snapped his fingers and returned to his computer. Within seconds, he pulled up the property records for Demon Key. His desk chair creaked as he leaned back.
Loggins again.
In 1843, Edward Loggins purchased the Everglades property and named it Loggins Key, a mere eight years after Florida had declared statehood. Jackson cross-referenced Loggins with the Florida state census and tax roles. There weren’t any.
Next, he checked the local territorial land affairs records and discovered that Loggins had a wife and five young children when he bought the property. There was a brief notation at the bottom of the record stating that Loggins and a son abandoned the key without making an effort to sell it in 1849. It became the property of the s
tate, and three years later Si Swinson purchased the key, a year before Florida seceded from the Union and joined the Confederate States of America.
Jackson was amazed that these historical land documents still existed. He scrolled down the screen. Swinson’s previous address on the bill-of-sale was listed as Bogotá, Brazil!
Fascinating.
His mental wheels spun faster.
Jackson examined the local death records for that time and uncovered five entries for the Edward Loggins family. He absently stroked his chin as he perused the entries.
It was unbelievable.
The thirty-one-year-old Hilda Loggins, his wife, had died from an alligator attack. Three-year-old James had succumbed to scarlet fever. Martha, eleven, had also died from an alligator attack. Ditto for George, six, and William, twelve.
Impossible!
Everybody knew that alligators dragged their tenderized victims to a shallow cave or a space beneath a log to be eaten later. But according to the coroner’s reports, the alligators’ masticated victims were found floating in the water around the key.
Jackson slapped the table. Something else must’ve killed them! Something with teeth similar to an alligator. Something that killed for sport. Cruel sport.
He pictured the orange eyes from his vision, and he thought about poor Teddi, who had seen them, too. Something clicked in his head, and he phoned Charlie Simmons in Washington.
“Hey, buddy, nice work down in Florida,” Charlie greeted him, his caller ID identifying Jackson as the caller.
“Thanks. You heard about Teddi?” he asked shortly, terminating the chitchat.
Charlie sighed. “Yes. It’s terrible. That woman has a promising future with us.” He sighed again. “If Teddi doesn’t improve in a week, I’m flying her up to Bethesda.”
“Who do you have stationed down in the Amazon rainforest?”
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