Demon Key

by David Brookover

  “Have you been following the news?”

  “I hate to admit it, but I have.”

  “Have you noticed that the rash of gator incidents and missing people and pets have progressed farther south?”

  Dex pursed his lips. “I haven’t really thought about it, no.”

  “It appears as if our prehistoric friend is heading toward the Gulf of Mexico.”

  Dex arched his brows. “So?”

  “Once it hits the open waters, we’ll have a cold chance in Hell of catching it.”

  Dex chuckled. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Take a few pictures of the thing and turn them over to the proper authorities.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Any government agency would leak the information to the press, and we’d have a reckless monster hunt on our hands.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Dex objected.

  “It sounds terrible if you consider how many fools’ll die trying to capture a perfect killing machine the size of four or five Great White sharks.”

  “Well, now that you put it that way . . .”

  “Our best bet is to track it and kill it ourselves.”

  “Are you crazy, John?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What’s going through that nefarious mind of yours, Dex?”

  “I was just wonderin’ why the creature, if that’s what it really is, is leavin’ our neck of woods after so many years hangin’ around Demon Key?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  “I was also wonderin’ if we could nail down why it’s leavin’, we might be able to coax the sucker right back here. Seems to me that it would be a lot safer for all of us to kill it in the shallows of the Everglades.”

  “That’s a lot of wondering, Dex.”

  “I suppose.”

  “See you Friday.”

  “Right.” Dex replaced the receiver and glanced through the office door window where Wilkerson and his band of idiots were huddled. Why couldn’t Wilkerson go get himself lost like Jackson? He shook his head slowly. He really disliked that pain-in-the-ass Wilkerson, and he didn’t trust the agent much, either. Dex just couldn’t put his finger on precisely why.

  But he would keep trying — real hard.

  Chapter 47

  After Jackson returned to the DEA base of operations, he disclosed the details of his brief jungle encounter to an incredulous group. Everyone but Demmy was skeptical.

  “The white medicine man speaks true,” he insisted in his native tongue. Desmond interpreted the chief’s statements. “There is such a place. I have seen it upriver from Manaus. Many men. Evil men. Big boats come and go, taking big boxes with them.”

  “Can you locate the place on the map?”

  He nodded curtly. “Of course I can.”

  Desmond unrolled a map of the region on the table and pointed out their current position, and then they all stared at the old man’s crooked finger as it traced the blue line of the Amazon River up to a point on the Negro River where the Branco River joined it.

  “There,” he said. “Two days’ journey.”

  Desmond clapped his hands and straightened. “Not if we use fast boats.”

  “River currents treacherous,” the chief informed him in his native tongue. “There is another river north of Manaus that is not on your map. The currents are lazy, and many trees cover parts of it like a green sky. Beware, though, of monkeys and snakes that will rain down on your boat from those trees. Very bad medicine.”

  Jeff Malloy smiled. “We’ll let the DEA take the river route while we close in on whatever’s going down in Manaus before dawn.”

  Demmy jabbed a finger into his own ribs. “We go. I no trust DEA. Only FBI.”

  Malloy’s smile collapsed. “DEA agents are very friendly,” he argued.

  Demmy turned in his chair and spat on the floor.

  “Did I understand Demmy’s gestures correctly?” Jackson asked Desmond. “Did he state that he was going, too?”

  Desmond posed Jackson’s question to the chief.

  “We go with FBI. Show you the way,” he said, puffing out his chest. “You be safe with us.”

  “Great!” Jackson nearly shouted. “Let’s ready those boats and get started.”

  “Whoa,” Holloway snapped. “This kind of trip requires planning.”

  Jackson stood over the agent. “We’ll plan on the way. Now where are those damn boats?”

  While the others abandoned the pre-fab structure to prepare for the mission, Jackson used the solitude to phone of a friend of his at the US State Department in Washington. After a few minutes of catching up on old times, Jackson asked his contact if he would check all the immigration records for the name Swinson, especially those from Brazil. His friend agreed to help, but it would take him several days to get to it because of his current workload. Jackson thanked him, suggested that they get together soon in the bayou for some fishing, and hung up.

  He leaned back in his chair and stared absently into space. Could it be possible that another Swinson was the one responsible for Teddi’s coma? Only time would tell.

  Before boarding, Jackson pulled Demmy aside and withdrew the vial containing Teddi’s blood from his pocket.

  “Check this for me and see if a spell’s been cast on it,” he instructed the chief, a sharp edge to his voice.

  Demmy hunched his shoulders to communicate that he didn’t understand English. Jackson leaned in close to his face.

  “Cut the crap, chief! You understand English — I’ve read your thoughts,” he hissed, so the others couldn’t hear.

  Demmy glowered at the white magic man and held out his hand grudgingly. “Give me blood.” He twisted the cap from the glass vial and dipped his long, ragged, and stained fingernail into the red liquid. He painted the tip of his tongue and immediately spat it onto the dirt at his feet. “Bad blood. What you call voodoo blood. This person under another’s spell. An evil witch doctor,” he grunted softly in English.

  Jackson screwed the cap back on the vial and tucked it into his pocket. “Well, can you help me save her from that witch doctor?”

  Demmy grinned. “Have jungle plant that will chase evil spirit from your dear friend’s body. But only Yokie knows where it can be found.”

  Jackson nodded and noticed the east horizon lightening. “Good. He and I’ll fetch some of that miracle plant of yours today as soon as we take care of the smugglers.”

  Demmy grunted his affirmation and joined the others on the short dock, where a small group of FBI agents was busily piling weapons and ammunition in the boat’s cabin beneath the glow of a pair of floodlights. Jackson watched Demmy go, and scratched his scruffy chin. Suddenly, his arms prickled as his psychic senses perceived some nebulous change in the chief, but it was nothing concrete. He would keep a close eye on Demmy during the trip.

  Before Jackson could ponder his surprising perception about Demmy, they were cruising the river. The black water reminded Jackson of his beloved bayou beneath dawn’s first gray radiance. After a few miles, a dense, smoky mist hid the river’s surface, except in several grassy coves carved into its banks. Long, broad tree leaves drooped above them like dozing bats in a dank cavern, dripping so much water that the travelers were soaked to the skin within minutes. The smothering atmosphere made it difficult for the Americans to draw a breath, but it didn’t hamper the Indians’ breathing. Both drew in smoke from their pipes and easily blew it out as if the morning was cool and dry.

  The prow spotlights scanned the impenetrable gloom, but failed to uncover obstacles or other dangers in the water that could damage the boat. The twenty-six-foot fiberglass cruiser drew very little water and was powered by a four hundred horsepower diesel engine. The two natives seemed totally relaxed as they peered into the profuse mist, and Jackson wondered if they might possess some sort of supernatural vision.


  Animal wails and haunting screams sent shivers through the anxious Americans.

  “You sure this is the way?” Desmond questioned the chief.

  The contents of Demmy’s pipe glowed an eerie orange-red, spewing erratic plumes of spiraling smoke. “This the way. You see.”

  Holloway was briefly taken aback by the man’s response in English, then recovered by clearing a bullfrog from his throat. “I’m still not convinced that there are enough of us to make a huge bust like this.”

  “The chief says six is enough, and I trust his judgment,” Jackson responded. “Have a little faith, Art.”

  “We’ve been after these bastards for years, Jackson. I sure as hell don’t want to be the one facing a hostile Senate hearing committee back home and telling them that we went into the fight understaffed and fuckin’ blew it,” Holloway growled.

  “I think we shoulda let the DEA and the Brazilian troops handle this end of the bust, while we conducted the cakewalk in Manaus,” Desmond grumbled.

  Jackson lit a cigar as Malloy muttered something gruffly under his breath and looked away. Desmond kept his eyes ahead as the bow sliced through the still and foreboding white mist.

  “Didn’t know you smoked,” Holloway sniped.

  “Only when people get on my nerves.”

  Demmy stood abruptly. “Get the weapons ready. Low trees coming up soon.”

  Ten minutes later, the jungle went dead silent. No animal, bird, or insect sounds. No river gurgling. Nothing but the blood pulsing through their ears.

  The mist thinned, revealing grayish-green tree canopies in the dim light. Demmy instructed them to refrain from speaking, and everyone enthusiastically complied. The native pipes were snuffed out, and Jackson’s cigar lay extinguished atop the river a ways back. The bow spotlights were extinguished as well. They were going in blind.

  Desmond’s tremulous hand maintained light pressure on the throttle, keeping the engine humming quietly, but he yearned to slap the lever forward and get the hell through there as fast as possible. Their relative crawl along the river was maddening. He felt like a target at a carnival shooting gallery. Out in the open. Gliding back and forth — grinning like a suicidal idiot. Waiting to be shot down. Watching the dimwitted carnie give his murderer a choice of stuffed animals. What a kick . . . to buy the farm like a sitting duck.

  Jackson was uneasy as well. Unseen enemies above could drop on them like lethal paratroopers at any second. His mouth was mummy dry despite the humid conditions. He couldn’t generate enough saliva to lick his lips or swallow. His wide eyes scanned the tree shadows. His stomach tightened. He sensed the danger approaching . . . waiting . . . on a collision course with the boat.

  He squeezed his eyelids shut for an instant to cast off some of the paralyzing tension, and slowly drew his handgun. The others agents followed suit, while the natives slid long knives from the sheaths at their sides.

  Jackson sucked in the malevolent air and exhaled sharply. All hell was about to break loose, and all he could focus on was saving Teddi’s life. If he perished on this godforsaken river now or bought it fighting the drug smugglers later, nobody’d be left to deliver Yokie’s supernatural antidote.

  The psychic’s resolve strengthened as pink daylight diffused the gray cloak. A lopsided smile dissolved his anxiety and creased his sweat-slick face. Bring on the monkeys and snakes and anything else in the rainforest arsenal. His hand tightened around his gun.

  It was a good day for killing.

  Chapter 48

  Dex strode into Teddi’s hospital room, propped his dripping umbrella behind the door, and advanced toward his inert friend. Rain dollops smacked the window behind the bed, and angry thunderclaps rattled his teeth as he pulled the lone plastic chair beside the bed rail and sat down. His lower back muscles complained, but he overruled them.

  “Evening, sunshine,” he whispered.

  Teddi stared straight up at the ceiling as she had since her admission, and her complexion remained sallow wax. Dex fought back a teary emotional rush and a sudden urge to retreat from the room, but a stream of tears dampened his cheeks before that decision was fully contemplated. He tugged a wrinkled white handkerchief from his rear jeans pocket, wiped his face, and blew his nose with a single honk.

  He cleared his throat. “I haven’t told you about my little swamp adventure with John Redfeather,” he began. Twenty minutes later, he finished relating their discovery.

  “So, Friday we meet up with a snooty professor from Florida Atlantic who scoffed at our findings and conclusions earlier, but now wants to discuss our theories. I think what the cynical broad really wants is a free lunch.” He grinned. “Sorry about the broad crack, but it’s the first thing that came to mind. Her name’s Jilly Newton. Doctor Jilly Newton.”

  The nurse came in, frowned at Dex, and rapidly noted the latest readings on the myriad of readouts across the room. He remained silent during her stay, and soon she hummed an unfamiliar tune and disappeared into the corridor.

  Dex stood, bent over Teddi, and kissed her cool forehead. “Well, I best be goin’. That ex-hubby of yours is plannin’ to tear up Demon Key with his FBI crime scene buddies, and I’d better keep an eye on him.” He paused. “I could sure use some help, Teddi. I hope you break outta this coma and join up with me real soon.” He sniffed, retrieved his damp umbrella, and walked somberly from the room.

  Deep within the misty Louisiana Bayou, a roaring bonfire crackled and snapped, casting demon silhouettes upon a robed figure kneeling at the edge of the flames. The twilight air was dead still as the curling smoke rose through the moss-laden trees toward the dreary sky. Absolute silence surrounded the fire and the figure. No bird calls. No animal rustlings. No gator splashing. It was as if the snaking flames had cast a spell upon the entire bayou.

  The figure’s chanting was barely audible above the clamorous blaze. A menacing stone ring circled the site, each flat surface depicting a horrible demonic form. As the lone figure raised his voice and arms, the yellow-orange flames were magically transformed to a deep purple, then jet black. The smoke ceased rising and hung motionless in the air like a black shroud above the circle. The fire quieted, and the figure’s male voice, deep and frantic, sliced the ominous silence like a dagger blade. A sudden wind emanated from the robed man and swirled swiftly around inside of the circle. The fire’s flames danced and curled from the invisible force, fighting for survival.

  The curious tornado died as quickly as it had begun. The flames now formed a twenty-foot fiery sculpture that flickered in and out of reality. Horns sprang from its grotesque head, and curved spikes protruded from its nebulous, crooked spine. A grating, unearthly voice rumbled from its depths in an ancient language, long forgotten except by those proficient in the most powerful black arts.

  The man replied calmly but commandingly, and the frozen flames spoke again. A red energy bolt sizzled and cracked as it split the air and struck the man. He didn’t move. Again, an energy bolt pummeled the robed figure, but he remained inert.

  Suddenly, the flaming spirit vanished, leaving behind a smoking jumble of scorched logs resembling Cajun black bones. The man stood, a red halo enveloping his frame. He tugged the hood over his head and retreated from the bayou, his face hidden in its shadows.

  Dex had found his office empty and decided to pay Demon Key a visit. Before he was halfway there in his fishing boat, he noted the dusky western horizon lit up like the Fourth of July. He quickly moored his boat, flashed the FBI agent guarding the dock his sheriff’s identification, and sloshed up the path toward the house.

  Dex shivered as sheets of wind-propelled rain pummeled his face and legs, left unprotected by his orange slicker. It was then that he recalled the rampaging Everglades creature that had eaten Morris and Munro Lapis not far from the key. He swore. He was a fool to have made this trip in such a small boat, where he was as inviting as a sardine in an open tin can.

  Oh well, he thought, what’s done is done. Wouldn’t be the first
time he’d done something so damn stupid. But at least this time, he kinda regretted it.

  He searched the area. Now where in blazes was that other damn fool, Wilkerson? Both the house and the pole barn out back appeared deserted beneath the intense daylight cast from several banks of generator-powered floodlights. Damn that Wilkerson! Leave it to him to find a place for his entire team of investigators to hide in all this frigging light.

  A sudden shout surfed a gust and disrupted his daze; it came from the far side of the key. The cemetery!

  Dex leaned into the gusting squall and picked up his pace. He struggled up the slick slope behind the pole barn and peered into the torrential downpour. A dozen or more agents with flashlights scrambled up the cemetery hill toward the old stone mausoleum. They resembled maggots on a dead man’s ass. Dex chuckled at the thought. Maybe he’d repeat it to Wilkerson for the helluva it.

  An indistinct shape filled the lighted mausoleum doorway, and he waved his arms furiously at the others to hurry. Must be Wilkerson, Dex figured. The sheriff sighed. He sure as hell didn’t want to miss the arrogant special agent’s big show, so he pulled his slicker tight to his body and ran and slid down the slope and up the gravestone-littered hillock like a slapstick clown.

  The others were safely inside by the time Dex reached the mausoleum’s threshold. He leaned heavily against the wood beam doorframe, turned his back to the storm, and gasped for breath. He was definitely too friggin’ old to be at the beck and call of his inexorable curiosity.

  After a few minutes of recharging, Dex regained a semblance of physical composure and stepped inside. Instead of joining a crowd of FBI agents, he found himself alone. He massaged his soggy chin, bewildered.

  Now where in the Sam Hill had everyone got to?

  Chapter 49

  Jackson and his edgy companions didn’t have long to wait.