The iron bolt shot back with a sharp crack. Jackson warily opened the heavy door and peered outside. It was blacker than all hell and still raining to boot. Damn! He pulled it open a little wider, and the darkness swallowed the pale yellow wedge cast from the light bulb.
“Jackson, is that you?” hissed a familiar voice.
The helicopter pilot!
“Yeah,” Jackson called back, relieved to see the Blackhawk’s shadowy hulk several yards away. “Can you get us out of here?”
“Who’s us, sir?”
“Me and a couple friends. They both need medical treatment.”
“I can fly them to any hospital with a helipad, sir.”
“Great. Help me get ‘em into the chopper.”
Jackson looked uneasily at the leveled hill and the lighted pole barn as they stepped into the steady drizzle. His friends’ energy levels were so depleted that they needed assistance marching the short distance to the Blackhawk.
The pilot chuckled. “You don’t have to worry about your shootin’ buddies, sir. They’re pinned down inside that pole barn. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of ‘em for over an hour.”
Jackson slapped the man on the back. “That’s music to my ears.” Conflicting sensations of apprehension and relief besieged him. It had been a close call beneath the mausoleum, but he had managed to save his friends’ lives, even though some of the events didn’t unfold exactly as they were predicted. He realized that having advance notice and acting accordingly could alter the outcomes of his visions. But, he’d triumphed despite the return of his childhood anxiety.
But there were still the foreseen deaths of Dex and Teddi to deal with somewhere in the city. Today! But where? Teddi didn’t remember anything that she had done or heard during the past few weeks. He had a sneaking suspicion that she had not only been commanded to murder Dex, but also commanded to kill him and arrange what would appear to be accidents to claim the lives of the luncheon meeting attendees later that morning. It was only supposition at this point, but it was all he had to go on.
“You all right, sir?” the young pilot asked Jackson, staring at him.
The psychic realized that he was still standing in the rain, supporting Dex’s flaccid frame. They were both drenched. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little preoccupied, that’s all,” he said, embarrassed. “Let’s get these two to a hospital.”
“Is the closest one okay?”
Jackson was silent for a few moments. “Any hospital except Holy Cross.”
Chapter 64
Inside the Oval Office in Washington DC, the angst pervading the pre-dawn meeting was palpable. President Shelton Hanover sat stiffly on a sofa in the meeting circle and eyed each of the four emergency conference invitees. The Secretary of Defense, General George Waring, and the Secretary of State, Francis Beasely, sat together and carefully surveyed the others, like attack dogs waiting to pounce on the first one who threatened their high-ranking authority. The Secretary of the Navy, Commander Jamison Plummer, wrung his hands nervously, while the FBI’s Southeast Field Director Charlie Simmons’ apoplectic complexion was in stark contrast to his customarily calm demeanor.
Shelton Hanover was in his early fifties and a longtime politician. He was six feet six, broad shouldered, and possessed a face that invoked both fear and compassion. Several political opponents had jokingly compared his toughness and appearance to that of a World Wrestling Federation star, but they had paid for their remarks with their political careers. Hanover was a powerful Washington figure whose influence was far-reaching. Insults and threats were dealt with swiftly through the Washington underground, and his enemies often found themselves unemployable for the remainder of their working lives. United States Senators and House Representatives disregarded Hanover’s quick temper and bullying tactics in Congress, because he was a can-do politician who inspired voter confidence with his firm, decisive actions and a commonsense approach to solving problems.
Now the president was faced with one of the most bizarre national security threats of his office term. Commander Plummer had just finished narrating the incredible video footage taken by the Coast Guard in the Gulf of Mexico yesterday afternoon. Plummer guaranteed the attendees that the action sequence recorded on the DVD was no amateur video production doctored to make the sea creature look authentic. It was as real as they were.
“No one else has seen this except for the Coast Guard crew, right?” Shelton asked.
Plummer nodded. “Yes, sir, that’s correct, and they all have top-secret clearances.”
“Good. We wouldn’t want to start a panic.” The president paused. “So where’s it headed, Jamison?”
“We’ve been tracking it for the past twenty-four hours, and all we can ascertain is that it’s headed north in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“North?” Francis Beasely snapped. “You can’t speculate further on its potential destinations? How can we plan when we have no tangible intelligence?”
The commander leaned over the coffee table and glared at the pompous Secretary of State. “In my business, we don’t hypothesize. We’re not alarmists, like local newscasters and some political headline seekers. They manipulate sketchy data and always seem to err on the side of gloom and doom for ratings and votes, whether it is actually indicated or not,” he replied sarcastically. “In the armed forces, we deal in certainties, and until I have intelligence in my possession that is one hundred percent accurate, I won’t succumb to speculation, Mister Secretary.”
Hanover jumped into the conversation before Beasely could respond. “When you do possess that information, Commander, what is your plan to neutralize this potentially devastating creature?”
“Torpedoes and heavy surface gunfire,” the commander responded quickly.
“And you’re certain that’ll be sufficient to kill it?” the president pressed. “This isn’t one of those B movies where no weapon works and the entire population of a country is threatened, is it?”
General George Waring spoke up. “No, sir, but I understand your trepidation. Jamison’s assessment is correct. Unlike in the movies, the reality is that our firepower is more than sufficient to blow that thing to kingdom come.”
Hanover grinned briefly. “That’s what I wanted to hear, George. Now, Jamison, when are you planning to kill it? Don’t forget, I want the entire operation recorded on video.”
“I won’t forget, sir.”
Beasely coughed into his hand. “Excuse me, Mister President, but I’d like to propose that we capture the damned thing and display it in one of our zoos. Think of it as a likely windfall revenue source.” His expression was tautly smug, and he added with a wink, “And, it wouldn’t hurt if President Shelton’s name was associated with its capture. You know, saving hundreds of the coastal people’s lives and all that.”
Before anyone could respond to the absurd proposition, Charlie Simmons jumped up and angrily wagged a finger at Commander Plummer. “One of your Blackhawk pilots opened fire on my agents last night at an FBI crime scene in the Everglades!” he accused Plummer. “Are you aware of that incident?”
President Hanover stood and waved Charlie down. Simmons reluctantly sat.
“We’ll have no further emotional outbursts like that during one of my meetings, is that clear?” His booming voice resounded throughout the small room. Everyone nodded quickly. Hanover faced Plummer. “Is that true?”
The commander nodded. “Up to a point.”
Charlie Simmons folded his arms and waited for Plummer to try and wriggle his way out of that tight spot.
“One of our young pilots on a clandestine mission with an FBI contractor found himself in a hostile situation. It seems that a group of your crime scene agents, Charlie, opened fire on their own contractor.”
“What!” Charlie exploded. His arms fell to his sides.
Hanover motioned Charlie to silence. “Go on, Jamison.”
The others leaned forward, anxious to see their old nemesis, the FBI, put on the hot seat.
>
Plummer remained stoic. “According to the information provided to my pilot from your contractor, he was there to rescue a local sheriff, a Dexter Lowe, and one of your own special agents, Teddi McCoy. When your contractor was lowered to the ground on Demon Key, a group of unidentified men opened fire on him. Our pilot responded properly in accordance with his training and protected the mission’s integrity. He opened fire on the hostiles, but not to kill. He merely pinned them down.”
“I see,” Charlie managed through clenched teeth.
“Well, I don’t!” Hanover shouted. “Who was this contractor?”
“Jackson LaFevre.”
“Swamp Jack?”
“Yes, sir.” Charlie Simmons’ voice was nearly a whisper.
“What the hell were you thinking when you hired that crackpot?”
Simmons cleared a frog from his throat. This wasn’t the time to defend Jackson’s reputation. “He helped us locate the serial killer in Fort Lauderdale. Without him, we couldn’t have found the perp as quickly.”
Hanover remained silent for a while. “The case is solved now, right?”
Charlie wasn’t about to go into that, either. Too many potential security leaks in the room. He didn’t trust Beasely as far as he could spit him. “Yes, sir.”
“And yet Swamp Jack is still on the FBI’s payroll and saving FBI agents in distress.”
“It appears so, yes.”
“Your report should make fascinating reading, Charlie.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Hanover turned to Plummer. “So your pilot contends that the FBI agents fired on one of their own?”
“I read the pilot’s report myself this morning, sir. That’s exactly what it says.”
Hanover addressed Charlie again. “What’s going on over at your place? Doesn’t the right hand know what the left’s doing?”
Charlie’s angry flush deepened to an embarrassed beet red. “That’s a valid question, sir. Believe me, I will get to the bottom of this.”
“You’re damned right it’s a valid question. I want that report in my hands by noon tomorrow!” Hanover ordered curtly.
Charlie desperately wanted to wring Special Agent in Charge Wilkerson’s neck. “You’ll have it.”
“Now, back to the crisis at hand. Does anyone know what the hell that sea monster is and where it comes from?” Hanover asked.
Beasely raised his hand slightly, like he was still a schoolboy. “I have an expert waiting outside, if you’re interested in hearing what he has to say.”
“Bring him in.”
“Yes, sir.” The Secretary of State rose, strode to the door, and ushered a gray-haired, stooped, and scholarly man into the Oval Office. He didn’t appear intimidated by the president; on the contrary, he seemed amused.
Beasely introduced Professor Janis Krug to the others, but before he could address the small group, the president’s assistant knocked and shuffled into the room. She held a folded sheet of paper.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but there is an urgent message for Commander Plummer,” Betty Furlong announced.
“That’s quite all right, Betty. Please give the message to the commander,” Hanover said, clearly intrigued by what level of urgency constituted disrupting a presidential conference.
Plummer scanned the brief communication as Betty left the room and closed the door. When he finished, his jawbone tensed and he looked ready to murder someone.
Hanover could barely stand the suspense. “Well, what is it?”
“I have to go,” he said abruptly, and stood.
“What’s so important that you have to leave my meeting?” Hanover insisted.
“Two of the Coast Guard crew that recorded that sea creature footage were murdered earlier this morning,” he answered.
“What?”
“Yes, sir. They were both shot execution style in the back of the head.”
Hanover doubled his fists. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m pissed!” Plummer retorted.
“No, you misunderstand. I’m upset about their deaths, too, but what I’m sorry about is a possible security leak aboard the cutter.”
“Security leak?”
“Yes. It appears as if someone else knows about our sea monster, and may have coerced those two into spilling the beans before he shot them. That constitutes big-time trouble.”
Professor Krug stepped forward and pointed to the sea creature’s still image projected onto a screen at the periphery of the conference circle. “That’s no real sea monster, gentlemen. It’s a scientific miracle of nature!” He clasped his hands excitedly at his chest. “What you’re seeing is a prehistoric survivor, and it’s known as a . . .”
Commander Plummer slipped from the Oval Office. It was imperative that he meet with his Coast Guard people — immediately. Until they could devise a workable security plan, it appeared that the lives of the surviving crewmembers of the Tampa-docked Coast Guard cutter were in jeopardy.
Chapter 65
Jackson scrolled through the recent newspaper articles on the Internet that pertained to their case. He had a lot of catching up to do since his return from Brazil.
Dex snored in the double bed across the room after his trip to the hospital. His wounds were cleaned and bandaged, and as before, there would be no permanent damage. The FBI’s Dr. George examined Teddi thoroughly, and reluctantly pronounced her fit to return to work. He used the descriptive phrase “miraculous recovery” quite a few times. He would’ve preferred to keep her a couple days in the hospital for observation, but Teddi wasn’t having any of that. She was now downstairs in her motel room grabbing a catnap before their luncheon date with John Redfeather and Dr. Jillian Newton at P.F. Chang’s restaurant.
Jackson watched the newspaper’s incredible video of the frightened alligators stacked atop one another on land along the highways and fenced properties skirting the eastern edge of the Everglades. After that, he found two articles that caught his attention. The first was a missing person’s report that he found interesting, involving a twenty-eight-year-old woman named Tori Hopewell. After finding her shoes outside her apartment and half of the apartment’s canal bridge destroyed, the sheriff’s department presumed that her disappearance was related to the presence of the mysterious swamp creature. The second involved the Lapis brothers. An unknown creature had mangled their fishing boat, and they had yet to be found.
The whole scenario staggered Jackson’s imagination. What kind of monster could’ve driven the gators from their territory? He didn’t want to even contemplate it.
There was a breaking news that suddenly appeared and detailed the deaths of several locals involved in a vigilante monster hunt last night. Sheriff James Stark sighted the monster from his department helicopter last night, but the creature disappeared before he could kill it.
He scrolled down further and clicked on a new story that suggested the Everglades monster must now be terrorizing the Gulf of Mexico, since the alligators had recently returned to the swamp. Both the local drivers and property owners were grateful. Jackson hoped to read about specific Gulf incidents, but none was mentioned. He figured it was just another bloated news shell with no substance.
There was a new video link beneath the Sheriff Stark story. Jackson clicked it and was both fascinated and terrified by the grainy night footage of the Everglades monster. He leaned forward. Although he couldn’t distinguish definitive physical features, he did establish its size. Compared to the airboat it chased through the swamp, the shadowy hulk was huge.
Was it possible that it was the same monster from 1856 Ike Noonan had described? Jackson massaged his temples. If it was, why did it show itself after more than a century? Was its sudden appearance related somehow to Bo Swinson’s death? What the hell was it, anyway?
Too many questions and an annoying shortage of answers. Jackson doubled his fists in frustration.
He shut down the computer, yawned, and checked on Dex. Still sawing wood. The em
ergency room doctor’s diagnosis indicated that Dex was dehydrated and anemic. His skin was torn in several places from his bear-creature morphing in the grotto, and his blood pressure was low. After administering two IVs and the proper medication, the doctor released Dex on the condition that he get plenty of bed rest.
Yeah, right!
Teddi was a different story. Her muscles were weak from weeks of coma inactivity, and Dr. George suggested that she return to Washington and receive treatment there, but Jackson realized that relocation was too dangerous. The person behind Swinson’s death and Teddi’s coma was intent on killing them all before the grotto lake rose another fraction of an inch and activated the temple. Splitting up would make them easier targets. He nixed that idea and endured Dr. George’s tirade.
Jackson rode the elevator down to Teddi’s room and swiped her room card in the magnetic door lock. She, too, was in a deep sleep. He checked that the sliding balcony door was secured, and then he returned to his room.
Jackson stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. Whoever had cast a spell on Teddi had to be close to her. Had to have had time to condition her brain for the psychic invasion. That’s just the way the voodoo shit worked.
His number one suspect was Wilkerson. He fit the bill. Years of close physical and mental contact. Hated his ex-wife. And, he was a power monger.
But what was his connection to Swinson? And did he know voodoo?
Those answers would make or break Jackson’s case against him.
He peered at his watch. A quarter to nine. He had to make two phone calls. He walked out onto the balcony, so he wouldn’t disturb Dex.
The first call was to his buddy in the State Department. He picked up immediately.
“Hey, it’s Jackson.”
“Hi. I got the Swinson info that you wanted. I was going to call you yesterday, but then the Justice Department dumped on me. Sorry,” he apologized.
“No problem. What’d you find?”
“Zippo.”
“Really?”
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