Demon Key

by David Brookover

  Now that’s what Ryan Wilkerson ought to be hunting for on Demon Key. Those questions would point him and his heavy crime scene hitters in the right direction. But, Dex was dead certain that if he mentioned Teddi’s insightful ideas, Wilkerson would quickly reject them out of professional vanity and jealousy.

  Dex scratched the gray stubble poking out from his chin. Maybe he and his new officer would have to beat the heavy hitters to the punch, and then a sudden inspiration suggested just who that officer might be. Dex was excited at the prospect, despite the new guy being a temporary, out-of-state employee who was a touch odd.

  With that decided, Dex dug into the steaming barbequed ribs and coleslaw that Luke placed before him.

  Chapter 42

  “Not your blood?” Jackson said via telepathy.

  “No. I’m certain of it,” Teddi replied, fear quivering her mental voice.

  Jackson grabbed both her limp hands in his, and his body jerked from a tremendous psychic jolt. Suddenly he was inside her mind, but the experience was so fierce, he immediately realized that it was too dangerous for him to stay connected. He tried to release her hands, but for some reason, he couldn’t. They were bonded.

  Fiery orange eyes invaded his mind, and then a rumbling tsunami of frothy blood engulfed them in a single shuddering crush. Before he could react to the first horror, the monstrous wave turned and came for him! It curled and crested above him and . . . just hung there. The scene was so real — so vivid — that Jackson wanted to run, but he was completely under Teddi’s spell.

  A hideous, savage face splashed through the crimson wall, its mouth leering and its eyes fire coals from Hell. The features were vaguely familiar, but Jackson was so terrified that he couldn’t quite grasp the name. His entire body trembled again, jarring his teeth, neck, and shoulder blades. The pain was excruciating.

  Suddenly, the ominous wave faded to . . . a hospital room — Teddi’s room — and the face in the wave morphed into a complete form. It was him — Jackson LaFevre!

  He panicked as his vision self approached Teddi’s bed with a large knife clutched in one hand. His alter ego peered down at her beautiful face, helpless and inanimate. Jackson’s real heart fluttered and skipped a beat, throwing the vision rhythm off kilter.

  His sanity was teetering precariously like a tightrope acrobat on the edge of disaster. How could he be contemplating Teddi’s murder? It didn’t make sense! What kind of twisted morality had been thrust upon him? Her placid eyes reflected his gaze like mirrored ponds — fishing ponds? — and the reflection startled him. It was no longer his reflection! The face belonged to the murderous maniac in the blood wave! How was that possible?

  Jackson was a prisoner inside his own body, and he found himself unable to save Teddi from the murderer who had pilfered his being. He took a deep breath and screamed a warning to her, but there was no sound. The scream was imagined. He wasn’t in control of his physical actions.

  Jackson watched as the knife tip penetrated Teddi’s throat and deftly sliced her jugular vein. Tears flowed down his cheeks as a blood geyser erupted, cascading onto her white and blue striped hospital gown. Her radiant green eyes fluttered, then life’s light died. He blinked once. Twice. Did he actually see what he thought he saw? Was there really a golden temple reflected in her eyes, or did he imagine the fleeting image?

  The savage face turned toward Jackson and laughed mockingly. Again, the man’s identity was on the tip of Jackson’s tongue. His frustration was shoved aside when the murderer lifted the bloody knife and lunged at him.

  Jackson screamed.

  And the atrocious spell was broken.

  His face was sweat-slick, but Jackson was grateful that it wasn’t blood — Teddi’s blood. He wiped his face and noticed Teddi gazing up at him with her mesmerizing green eyes. The ones he had watched wither and die moments before. God, what was going on in that mind of hers? But was it hers? He felt as if he’d been propelled into a terrifying world beyond her mind into someone else’s. Someone even more murderous than Bo Swinson. But who? He looked so familiar, and yet . . .

  He nervously wiped his face again. Maybe he would find the answer in Brazil.

  But there was one detail he was clear about. Teddi had lied to him. That was her blood in the vial Dr. George had given him. Jackson had sensed it briefly before the orange eyes appeared. But why would Teddi try to deceive him? Or was it someone else in her mind controlling her?

  “What . . . what’s the matter, Jackson? I lost you there for a minute.” Teddi asked, worried.

  He managed a smile, which was quite a feat after what he just endured, and told her that it was a normal symptom in comatose patients.

  “Brazil?” she said out of the blue, startling him. “Are you going there?”

  “Uh, yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, be careful and hurry back.”

  He breathed a puff of relief. She didn’t appear to know what his real objective was in South America.

  He kissed her forehead so she could watch him do it, and then backed away.

  “I’ll return before you know it,” he said mentally.

  “I hope so. The other voices in my head are getting louder. More pushy.”

  “Keep the faith, Teddi.” With that remark, he left the room and located Dr. George in the doctor’s lounge munching on a sandwich. Jackson rapidly explained what he needed the doctor to do.

  Dr. George stubbornly folded his arms across his chest. “I can’t do that without a written order from Charlie Simmons.”

  “Then call him. I’ll wait.”

  “I’ve got more important things to do first.”

  Jackson slipped his gun from its shoulder holster, slowly moved it beneath the table, and tapped the barrel against George’s kneecap.

  “If you don’t do this now, then you’ll be walking with a limp the rest of your life!” he threatened in a low voice. He was in no mood for Dr. George’s childish antics after what he’d experienced in Teddi’s mind.

  “You wouldn’t dare shoot me here in front of all these other doctors,” he smirked, but it quickly vanished when he heard the metallic click. “Okay, okay, you win. I’ll do it.” He paused. “You’re just as crazy as they said you were.”

  “Now,” Jackson growled. “And I’ll be watching so you don’t renege on your promise.”

  An hour later, Jackson was in his limousine headed to a private airfield south of Miami in Homestead — a very private field where a Harrier jet awaited him on a military airstrip. Jackson swallowed at the thought of traveling in it. Its history proved the vertical thrust design to be very unreliable.

  “I thought these planes were one-seaters,” Jackson remarked as the pilot stowed his gear in an outer side compartment and securely closed it.

  The pilot, Jim Peterson, smiled slyly. “Oh, some of them like this baby have been slightly modified for non-combat missions. It’ll be a cozy ride, but we’ll make great time,” he explained. He climbed up the ladder to the cockpit and motioned for Jackson to follow him.

  After being outfitted with an oxygen mask and buckled tightly into a body-formed leather seat, Jackson maintained a white-knuckle grip while the Harrier’s roaring vertical thrusters boosted them straight into the air. Without warning, the pilot goosed the throttle, and they shot forward as if launched from a cannon. The Gs pinned his body against the seat and distorted his face until it resembled a stretched latex mask.

  After they reached their cruising altitude, Jackson was finally able to doze during their flight over the seemingly unending blue Caribbean waters. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the past week during the investigation, and now his body was playing catch-up.

  The pilot rudely jolted him awake with a sharp elbow to the ribs as they approached a small American airbase southwest of Paramaribo, Suriname. Julianatop, the country’s highest mountain, rose ominously in the distance amid angry black thunderclouds.

  “I was afraid we wouldn’t make it before the predicted storms,�
�� the pilot announced over Jackson’s headset. “But, it’s expected. It’s the rainy season down here.”

  Jackson slouched as far as the restraining safety harness allowed. More rain. Just what he needed, he thought facetiously.

  The Harrier had no sooner touched down, and Jackson was sprinting toward a waiting Blackhawk helicopter — another military aircraft with a spotty record. Maybe ole Charlie was trying to tell him something in a not-so-subtle manner.

  A Jeep Wrangler was visible in the twilight storm beside a crude airfield cut out of the dense jungle, as the Blackhawk pilot dropped him off and flew away. Jackson ran through the deluge, which soaked his tropical linen clothing in seconds, and tossed his soggy duffel into the back. He climbed into the Jeep beside Art and brushed back his drenched white-blond hair with his fingertips. The men shook hands after hasty introductions. Special Agent Art Holloway was a forty-something with auburn hair and a no-nonsense demeanor.

  Without another word, the FBI agent gunned the engine and shifted the Wrangler into first gear with a lurch.

  “Where’s the fire?” Jackson exclaimed, his nerves edgy from his two earlier flights.

  Art stared straight ahead. “Got to get to the camp before night falls, and it comes damned fast down here.”

  “Afraid you’ll get lost?” Jackson asked with an unsteady grin, part of him worried that he might be right.

  “Hell no,” Art grunted. “The animals get restless around that time. Pain in the ass, really.”

  “I’ve never heard that before, and I’ve been to South America several times.”

  Holloway chanced a quick glance at his companion. “Me neither, till last night.”

  Jackson frowned. “What exactly is going on?”

  “There’s a native word for it, but I can’t think of it at the moment. It means something like animal bloodlust for humans.”

  “You mean animals are attacking people without provocation?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Does anyone know why?”

  “The superstitious natives have all the answers. They believe we’re all cursed.”

  “By who, for godsake?”

  “Some weirdo supernatural something or other. Like an ancient god returned to life.”

  Jackson leaned back and tried to ignore his clinging wet clothes. Just what had he gotten himself into now?

  Chapter 43

  The tropical rain ceased faster than Jackson could snap his fingers. The Wrangler’s twin beams carved a tunnel through the darkness and ignited the rain droplets on the sagging leaves into fiery diamonds. The jungle growth was so close to the side of the road that it scratched the sides of the Wrangler. Holloway proceeded cautiously along the rutted one-lane dirt road and kept a sharp eye out for animals, especially jaguars.

  “How far to the camp?” Jackson asked, fracturing the tension.

  “Not far,” he grumbled, and gripped the steering wheel even tighter.

  A savage scream rattled Jackson’s nerves. It sounded so close to the side of his face that he hurriedly rolled up the fogged window. He recognized the fierce cry as that of a jaguar, and it sounded ravenous.

  “Told you,” Holloway muttered. “The animals are fucking crazy around these parts.”

  He swung the Wrangler sharply around a corner; the tires slid out on the slick mud, but regained traction before the Jeep slammed into the jungle.

  “Close one,” Jackson said wanly. His stomach was a Mexican jumping bean.

  “Here we are,” Holloway announced, with a relieved sigh.

  Jackson stared through the bug-streaked windshield and inspected the fog-shrouded campsite. It wasn’t as primitive as he had expected. There were four dome prefab structures huddled in a small clearing, and there were air conditioners protruding from several windows. The parking area was river gravel, and the multiple banks of dazzling floodlights were perched atop towering wooden poles. Jackson was impressed.

  Despite the primitive environment enveloping the facilities, three satellite dishes and a pair of powerful electric generators representing modern technology spoiled the natural splendor of the landscape, but Jackson was grateful for the link to civilization.

  Several heavily armed gunmen patrolled the camp, and when they spotted the Wrangler, they pointed their automatic rifles at it. One of them approached the Jeep as Holloway maneuvered it into a tight parking space between two sizeable tree trunks. After a brief conversation, the guard retreated, and Holloway turned to Jackson.

  “Let’s get inside before it rains again. The weather changes at the drop of a hat in the rainforest.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Jackson replied curtly, as he grabbed his duffel bag and followed the agent inside.

  They entered a large conference room that filled the center of the white dome. It was furnished with a folding conference table, chairs, a stocked bar, and a coffeemaker on a far table. A bank of six color surveillance monitors, displaying real-time perimeter surveillance video, obtruded from brackets on the left entry wall, and another two screens on the right wall monitored infrared images. He studied the four closed doors on each side of the room.

  “Bedrooms,” Holloway explained.

  Two bearded men wearing camouflage outfits, and a pair of local tribesman were seated around the table. Holloway introduced Jackson.

  “This the local chief, Demmy, and his medicine man, Yokie,” Holloway said. “And this is Sam Desmond and Jeff Malloy.”

  Jackson nodded at the Indians. Their white painted faces were adorned with enough nose rings, cheek rings, and earrings to stock a small jewelry store. He shook hands with the solemn white men. Sam Desmond was tall, trim, and had closely cropped black hair. His narrow blue eyes regarded Jackson suspiciously. Jeff Malloy was blond, smug, and sported a rugged countenance.

  A brief discussion yielded the core facts of the case. A regional drug smuggling ring operated close by, but the DEA and Brazilian troops weren’t able to pinpoint their exact headquarters. Law enforcement officials had narrowed the search area to the junction of the Negro and Amazon rivers, but that still encompassed a lot of secluded land. Their surveillance people reported that the drugs were shipped down the Negro and moved east along the Amazon River toward Manaus.

  Within the past six months, the DEA had relocated their camp three times, with each position closer to the drug source. But now their attempts to shut down the illegal trafficking was disrupted by an inexplicable outbreak of crazed jaguars and monkeys. The DEA and FBI satellite intelligence wasn’t helping pinpoint the cause because of the heavy cloud cover.

  “Obviously, we’re getting closer to their center of operation,” Desmond remarked, his eyes dulled by frustration and fatigue. “And so we think that the animal attacks on our personnel are somehow connected to the smugglers.”

  Malloy folded and unfolded his hands. “But we don’t have one shred of evidence to support our theory.” His expression was grim.

  “Our friends Demmy and Yokie firmly believe that the attacks are caused by some kind of curse, and their warriors won’t budge from their village to help us without a heavily armed escort,” Desmond added.

  The two Indians nodded gravely.

  Jackson stood and stared at the monitors. “So, it appears that I won’t get my antidote as long as those crazy critters are roaming the rainforest, is that it?”

  Art Holloway shrugged. “That’s about the size of it.”

  Jackson stood. “Then it looks like I’ll have to take care of your animal pest problem.” He moved toward the front entrance.

  “Wait!” Holloway called. “You don’t even know the lay of the land, LaFevre. You can’t just march out there alone!”

  The two painted tribesmen were stunned by Jackson’s bold response.

  “Just watch me.” With that, Jackson stepped into the eerie illuminated fog and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Chapter 44

  The night was bustling with animal calls and
cries and endless insect buzzes and whines. The soaked leaves above the floodlights provided a steady sprinkling of rain beads, each landing with a splash-echo in the shallow puddles below. A distant jaguar snarl grabbed Jackson’s immediate attention. His head jerked to the left, and against his better judgment, he stepped in that direction. Suddenly, a camp guard jumped out from his hidden position behind a generator and blocked his path.

  “I wouldn’t advise going into the jungle alone, sir,” the burly sentinel warned.

  “Thanks for the advice, but I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “I’m afraid that I can’t permit you to go in there . . .”

  With a rapid martial arts move, Jackson seized the guard’s wrist, spun him around in a hammerlock, and stripped him of his assault rifle.

  “One more objection and I break your arm,” Jackson threatened in a gravelly timbre. “You understand?”

  “Yeah, man . . . I do,” he groaned, his voice strained with pain and embarrassment.

  Jackson leveraged his foot into the small of the guard’s back, stiffened his hamstring into a coiled spring, and launched the man forward. The guard went sprawling onto his face in a soupy puddle.

  Jackson looped the assault rifle strap around his neck and disappeared into the pitch-black landscape beyond the reach of the floodlights. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the contrast before he followed a beaten path winding through the undergrowth to who-knew-where. He didn’t care where he was headed. His only ambition was to locate the killer jaguars that were harassing the natives and DEA crew.

  The full moon exploded from cottony clouds and bathed the jungle in a ghostly luminosity. Dozens of wary eyes reflected the moonlight along the path, but none were large and predatory enough to be those of a jaguar. Jackson maintained his vigilant pace and didn’t pause until the camp’s glow faded to black. He listened.