Suddenly, he was jolted by a psychic vision — one that he never forgot, although a half-dozen psychiatrists did their best to help him do just that. He vividly beheld his parents’ airplane spiral to a watery grave in the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean between California and Hawaii. He cried and pleaded with his Aunt Edith to tell the airline people about the upcoming accident and have them order the plane back to New Orleans. Jackson’s revelation frightened her, and she ran back into the terminal with him in tow. She swiftly explained the situation to the airline personnel at the customer service counter, but they merely repeated that they could not recall the flight on a boy’s whim. But his determined Aunt Edith was not to be denied . . . until three security guards arrived and escorted her and her sobbing nephew from the terminal.
Four hours later, his aunt’s phone rang, and an airline executive broke the tragic news: his parents had perished in a plane crash somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. My aunt lashed out at them with a verbal tirade that would have reduced a sailor to a quaking mass of nerves.
From that day forward, Jackson’s greatest fear was that he would not be able to save those destined for death in his visions. That intense panic had nearly driven him insane. Thoughts of delicious suicide had permeated his entire mental fabric until at age thirteen, his aunt had found him in the bathroom about to slit his writs with her razor. His intense therapy had begun at that point in his adolescence.
Eight years later, after a long, passionate battle with his psychological demon, he emerged victorious. He now projected a placid, impenetrable demeanor. The shrinks had effectively built a wall around his emotions, disabling his intimate feelings. They predicted that no psychic vision, no matter how powerful, could dismantle that stout wall constructed from mental mortar and stone. They forced him to repeat it over and over and over . . . mortar and stone . . . mortar and stone . . . mortar and stone . . .
Now uneven cracks appeared in that mortar. He envisioned it. He felt it. Bit by bit, mortar chips fell away, exposing his inner beast. His unique vulnerability.
And now, Jackson’s emotional resistance wilted beneath its power. His stomach clenched. Sweat leaked from his tremulous pores.
Would he return to Florida in time to save his new friends? His only friends. Or would they be lost forever like his parents?
Chapter 54
Sheriff Stark’s narrow brown eyes stared at the illuminated Everglades as it whizzed by beneath the Broward County Sheriff Department’s helicopter and its searchlights. The beautiful machine was his own brainstorm, and it took him three long years of campaigning for it to become a reality. The helicopter was equipped with the latest, state-of-the-art infrared search technology, as well as radar capabilities that enabled the pilot to see through the densest fog and most tumultuous storms. As a bonus, the helicopter manufacturer threw in a couple nose-mounted portable 50mm guns at no additional charge to sink fleeing drug smuggler boats. Stark wrinkled his brow. Now they would be used to obliterate some kind of giant swamp monster.
But so far, all they’d seen were miles of beached gators. Thousands of them.
The helicopter slowly cruised south from Coral Springs toward the region where the Everglades merged with the Gulf waters. He’d been down there on a fishing trip years before and found it to be a desolate area.
As they zoomed past Alligator Alley, Deputy Gerhardt motioned at the port window. “Down there,” he shouted above the noisy engine.
They peered through the rain-streaked glass at a pair of broken channel gates and a ruined bridge.
“What do you make of it, Sheriff?” Gerhardt asked.
“Don’t know right offhand.”
A second deputy spoke up. “Maybe our monster snatched someone off the bridge.”
“Like who?” Stark retuned sharply.
The deputy shrugged. “How do I know?”
“Your imagination’s working overtime,” the sheriff snapped. “The monster’s probably so damn big that its fin took out the bridge.”
The second deputy fell back in his seat, defeated.
“You want me to put her down so we can take a look?” their young, blond daredevil pilot queried. Alex Stoner was thirty-two years old, but his fair skin and large naive eyes made him appear much younger.
“Nah, man,” Stark replied. “The bastard’s come and gone. We’ll continue heading south, but I want everybody to keep their fucking eyes open, okay?”
The two deputies in the rear of the helicopter grunted their assent.
It swam toward the scent of unlimited food, ignoring the smaller fare along its route. Sunken logs and twisted mangroves scraped its belly and threatened to ensnare it numerous times, slowing it down. Its hunger escalated, and it became careless. It splashed noisily as it surfaced to gulp air into its lungs. The dorsal fin whipped the surface into a white froth as its elongated, sinuous tail moved in a powerful undulating locomotion like a conger eel. Its sense of hunger superseded its caution, an especially reckless trait in unfamiliar waters.
Up ahead, it suddenly sensed larger prey — an abundance of them — but it was moving too fast to determine whether they were enemy or dinner. Its momentum carried it forward on a collision course.
Max Lester and Darryl Chalmers had organized their hunting buddies into a Everglades monster vigilante group after they’d seen the beached gators on the television news the night before. Putting two and two together, which wasn’t always easy for these trailer-park geniuses, they presumed that the killer monster was headed south — into their neck of the woods.
Twenty-six of their closest drinking buddies answered the call to arms, and together the small armada motored out to the deepest section of the Glades at first light. The seven airboats were loaded with enough shotguns, automatic rifles, and ammunition to arm a small third-world country, not to mention a staggering amount of beer. Longneck cases were piled high in each boat as the hunters raced through the morning fog and light drizzle to their computed monster interception point an hour west into the Everglades.
Now, just before dusk, the beer supply had dwindled, along with the monster hunters’ sensibility. Half were asleep in their rain slickers, while the other half were arguing or playing pissing games off the sides of the boats.
Max and Darryl, though, were wide awake and sober. They were completely dissatisfied with their friends’ behavior and wished that they’d never agreed to take them along. Their original theory of “safety in numbers” had eroded to “liability in numbers.”
The rain fell harder, and the tendrils of a light mist crept in from the west. Twilight was a ten-minute event; darkness fell abruptly.
Max and Darryl stiffened.
“You hear that, Max?”
“Yeah. Sounded like splashing. Big-time splashing.”
“I heard it, too. You reckon our buddy’s coming?”
Max listened long and hard. “Yeah, he’s getting real close now. Just north of Turtle Island and headed our way like a friggin’ freight train.”
“You sure?”
Max didn’t reply. Instead, he shouted to the champion pissers and brain-dead debaters. “Knock it off, assholes! Our monster’ll be here inside of a minute!”
The debaters ended their arguments with reciprocal shoves, and the pissers fell backward into the airboats as they attempted to zip up. Some of the sodden lumps beneath the yellow and camouflage slickers roused and blinked awake, although it would be hours before their brains were fully functional.
Max and Darryl grabbed their automatic rifles, checked the clips and spare clips, and then guided their powerful spotlight into the gloom . . . back and forth over the still, rain-dimpled water north of their position.
The splashing grew louder and more violent. Max stared resolutely along the spotlight beam as Darryl scanned the other airboats for coherent activity. A few armed men stood ready for the confrontation between man and beast on the bows, some scrambled clumsily to find their weapons beneath layers of empty beer bottles in
the blackness, while the others remained sound asleep.
Suddenly, Max’s panicked scream rent the expectant air. “Jesus H. Christ! I can see the fucker, and it’s humongous! Get goddamned ready, men!”
A fusillade of automatic rifle bullets shattered the stillness and peppered the roiling water enveloping the monster. Acrid smoke clouds mingled with the fog, reducing visibility to near zero. The badly frightened men finally ceased firing and scanned the water’s surface for the creature. All was quiet. Not a splash. Not a ripple. They neither heard nor saw the monster. But they all realized that . . .
It was out there.
Chapter 55
Dex tiptoed softly along the edge of the grotto lake, searching for more Indian drawings that might shed some light on Demon Key’s monster mystery. His flashlight beam remained strong as it scanned the damp, uneven limestone walls. He kept a wary eye on the lake as he hiked, praying that the dad-blasted creature roaming its depths would stay put and leave his sorry ole ass alone. An unsettling sensation of being watched still prickled his spine and knotted his stomach. He felt like a man with a ticking time bomb in his pocket, uncertain of when it would explode.
Dex had passed the quarter mark around the lake when he nearly collided with a sizeable wall. His breath lodged in his lungs, and his knees trembled. He immediately retreated to assess the curious obstacle.
The first thing Dex noted was that it wasn’t a wall at all. It was part of some kind of golden ceremonial structure that stretched from the top into the lake in progressive steps. The last step was visible beneath the shallow black water. At least it appeared to be the last step.
Dex waded into the cool water and climbed over the stepped wall at its lowest point. He guided the flashlight beam upward and nearly fell backward into the lake! A golden stairway rose up to a primitive altar cut into the grotto wall fifteen feet above him. Another stairway side, symmetrical to the one he clambered over, flanked the opposite end.
He stood there in awe, staring. He’d never been one to visit museums, because old stuff wasn’t his bag, but this ceremonial temple was different. This was real to him. Something no one had seen for centuries — maybe thousands of years. This exhibit wasn’t neatly tucked into an expansive museum hall surrounded by Do Not Touch signs. And, real evil pervaded this primeval waterside temple, not just the kind described on a fancy easel placard, telling visitors exactly how evil the exhibit used to be in ancient times. He felt the malevolent spirit permeate his being and blacken his thoughts. The sensation chilled his marrow and willed him up the golden stairs toward the altar. He couldn’t resist its strange and powerful sway. Desire. Command.
He was caught in a hypnotic tractor beam that drew him upward. Ever upward. He didn’t fear it. For some inexplicable reason, the force fascinated him. Within seconds, he climbed atop the beautiful, yet menacing altar.
The force relaxed its sway, and Dex curiously directed his light across the altar. Enormous ancient urns lined the back edge, and upon closer inspection, Dex noticed that each one was actually fashioned from and connected to the limestone wall. Crude drawings of deformed, decapitated, and broken people adorned the upper third of each urn. Dex attempted to subdue his growing horror, but failed.
The sheriff’s trembling hand guided the light higher until he gasped! Above him, an elaborately carved, grotesque sculpture rose ominously thirty feet toward the grotto’s domed ceiling. The hideous figure was nestled in a colossal alcove and was completely detached from the limestone behind it. Its clawed feet rested upon a block of what appeared to be black granite.
Strange. Granite wasn’t indigenous to Florida. How did that big-ass chunk of rock get there?
Dex brushed aside the annoying issue and examined the daunting fiend. Its black scaly head was shaped like a gigantic pumpkin with two pairs of browless triangular eyes forming a sinister square around two flared nostrils. The expansive bottom jaw jutted far beyond its upper lip, and four thickly curved and pointed fangs thrust up and over lesser fangs atop its cavernous mouth. No other teeth were visible.
A thorny, fin-like appendage projected from the back of its brawny neck and broadened as it continued down its backbone to the brief tail twenty feet below. A series of wide slots were sliced into its massive, gray armored chest. Dex guessed them to be gills.
Two muscular arms sprang from each side, reminiscent of multi-limbed Buddha statues that Dex had seen in National Geographic magazines at the library. Each of the four hands sported six webbed digits, blunt at the ends but adorned with bony spikes below the tips. Dex figured that a love squeeze from any one of those wicked hands would kill the strongest of prey.
The powerfully built torso narrowed at armor-plated hips. A pair of gray-scaled tyrannosaurus-like legs supported its gargantuan bulk. The enormous toes were webbed, but unlike the creature’s fingers, lethal claws curled down from each.
Dex hoped to hell that this mythical abomination was just that — mythical. If not, it would certainly be the most formidable fiend on Earth. Unstoppable.
Dex looked out over the lake. This statue certainly didn’t resemble the Miccosukee monster depicted in the Seminole drawings. Were there two monsters?
Dex lowered the light to the six-foot urns. He moved closer and inspected the side ornaments that he had mistakenly identified as handles. Instead, he now realized that they were shackles. The long-lost worshippers of this pagan god had shackled sacrifices to the urns, but why? He didn’t have a clue, but a strangely nagging curiosity seized control of his reason and drove him to learn the contents of the urns.
Like a mesmerized zombie, he stuck the flashlight between his clenched teeth, leaped up, and grabbed the upper edge of the closest urn. With a throaty growl, Dex struggled upward, his legs kicking furiously for a foothold, until his chin finally rested on the rim. He cocked his head at an angle so the light would illuminate the contents. He wished he hadn’t. His hands rapidly released their tenuous grip, and he skidded down the smooth surface, crashing to the altar floor in a crumpled heap. His legs and arms were tangled.
Blood! The urn was half filled with the burgundy-black liquid. Ancient. Syrupy. Disgusting. The repulsive smell tainted his nostrils, and he fought the urge to vomit.
His dropped flashlight remained lit. Dex plucked it from the floor and stared in horror at his forearms and shirtfront. Both were damp with blood. His blood! He slowly glanced toward the glowing urn and numbly watched it absorb the last of his smeared blood. Glowing? His eyes flitted from its golden halo to his arms and back. Did his blood bring the urn to life? That was a damn scary thought! Jesus, what kind of place was this? Did that murderer, Bo Swinson, bring his women victims here and feed them to these urns? Maybe the real monster was Swinson!
What in blazes was going on? Dex gradually stretched his sore legs and regained his feet. A shocking realization supplanted his nausea. The altar urns functioned like leeches. They bled their shackled victims through their pores and absorbed each drop like a vampire sponge. Until there wasn’t a drop left in their emaciated bodies. But why? What was all that blood used for?
Dex wasn’t the least bit anxious to solve that puzzle while lingering on the sinister altar. He needed to get the hell outta Dodge — and fast! For one thing, he had a strong survival instinct. Second, there was his eleven-thirty lunch meeting with John Redfeather and Professor Jilly Newton at P.F. Chang’s later that morning — he couldn’t miss that. Third, he needed some sleep. He glanced at the urn. Like sleep would be possible now.
Dex’s panic severed the altar’s hypnotic power, and he raced down the temple steps toward the lake. As he approached the black water, an explosion echoed across the lake, and something scalded his left ribcage. He immediately dropped onto the cut-stone stairs and fingered the wound.
Some asshole had just winged him!
The Harrier jet landed at the United States Guantanamo Naval Station in Cuba, where Jackson hurriedly changed into a black, skintight Navy Seal assault wetsuit before boa
rding another Blackhawk helicopter. The pilot took off immediately, fully aware of his passenger’s time constraints. Jackson realized the flood surrounding Demon Key would prevent the Harrier from touching down close-by, so he contacted Washington from the plane. Charlie Simmons agreed with his concerns and arranged the Guantanamo transfer.
Before Jackson knew it, the Blackhawk hovered above the Demon Key mausoleum. With a wave of thanks, Jackson swung out the door in his harness, and the pilot lowered him to the cemetery. Jackson stripped off the harness in the rain and ran up the hill toward the mausoleum. He fell once, sliding down the muddy hillside, but a grave marker stopped his descent. He frantically patted the lump in his pocket. Thankfully, the small glass bottle was still intact.
Jackson’s childhood anxiety resurfaced in his consciousness, but he ignored it. There was no time for histrionics or ineffectual distractions. Every second counted. He moved more cautiously toward the mausoleum, and his anxiety engulfed him again.
Would he arrive in time to save Dex?
Chapter 56
Bullets penetrated the large creature’s scales, but its primordial nervous system was slow to transmit pain signals to its brain. But it didn’t need to feel its physical injury; it smelled its blood mingle with the swamp water and became enraged.
The creature lunged up and over the first lighted airboat it encountered, its tail immediately swamping the boat and extinguishing the lights. Two men were swept into its gaping mouth on the first pass. Blood spewed from the corners as it worked its jaws rapidly, crushing its puny victims. After a single gulp, its mouth was empty again. The long tail capsized another airboat, sending three men into the water, kicking and screaming. The creature seized and swallowed them whole as its tail capsized three other airboats, spilling another dozen screaming men into the cresting whitecaps.
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