Turning back toward the house, he stepped around broken glass and banged on de la Garza’s front door. The echo of fist against wood faded. More silence. Jim knocked again. No answer. Jim checked his watch. Right on time. Where’s my witness?
Jim tried the doorknob and it turned. He pushed the door, and as it creaked opened, drew his weapon. Stepping inside, Jim saw why de la Garza did not answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
An adrenaline dump pushed Jim’s heart rate higher. Cold sweat stung his eyes and trickled down his back. He swept the room with his weapon.
De la Garza sat upright in a high-backed chair. His right eye was open. A wood shaft, some type of short arrow, or bolt, protruded from his left eye. The shaft looked old. Antique even. A half-mask of crusted blood covered de la Garza’s cheek, chin, and neck below the offended eye.
An assault rifle, with magazine inserted, rested against the side of the chair. De la Garza’s mouth hung slightly open. Something inside kept his lips parted. Jim used the sleeve of his free hand to clear more sweat from his eyes. He took three deep, slow breaths, as he rubbed his hand against his pants to remove the sweat from his palm and help calm his nerves.
He looked around, edging cautiously past the chair. The small kitchen, now visible, stood empty. Moving back to the right, he walked slowly toward the short hallway leading to the bedroom. To his left was the bathroom, the door partially closed. Jim used his foot to nudge it open. Empty.
He turned toward the closed door across the hall and stood still for a moment. The house remained quiet. He reached out, noiselessly turned the doorknob and shoved the door open. Nothing. Jim cleared the bedroom and returned to the living area. He holstered his weapon and began the distasteful task of examining de la Garza.
Jim wiped more sweat away from his eyes. He looked behind the chair and saw the iron tip of the bolt, barely poking through the chair’s upholstery. It had pierced Pedro’s skull and nailed his head to the chair.
Taking a pen from his pocket, Jim pushed Pedro’s mouth open. Using the tip of the pen, he pulled out a small length of what looked like a beaded necklace. Hooking the string, he eased it out of Pedro’s mouth and saw a silver crucifix attached to it. A rosary hung at the end of Jim’s pen.
Events somehow had tied together Kat Connors, Bruce York, the little Klingon freak, Kevin Williams, and who knew whom else. Events had taken Pedro from murder witness to murder victim. Regardless of his presuppositions, Jim had to admit that Saffi might be right. No matter what he might believe, he had to follow the evidence, even if it led to the devil’s front door.
Of all the recent occurrences, the kidnapping of Carl Johns puzzled Jim the most. It could have been blind luck that Kat somehow got her hands on Carl, but Jim doubted that. There has to be a bigger connection.
He looked at Pedro. He had seen death many times, but Pedro’s loss made the situation more personal, more painful. Pedro de la Garza, along with Saffi, had helped move him from skeptic to nascent, if reluctant believer. The old soldier had paid with his life. Maybe now he was finally at peace with the woman he loved.
The sound of a vehicle driving slowly toward the house cut through the dead-silence of the living room. Jim put his hand on the butt of his pistol and moved to the edge of the front door. He cracked the door enough to see the area where the trail opened into the clearing. A white Chevrolet Impala rolled toward the house. Even from a distance, he recognized the Impala as a State of Florida fleet vehicle. It pulled up behind Jim’s Charger.
Jim pushed the door open at the same time Bill Joyce exited the vehicle. Jim took a second to put on his sunglasses before stepping out on the porch. He pulled the door closed behind him. Joyce was dressed in a white Department of Law Enforcement polo shirt and dark pants. A third generation, Glock twenty-two pistol rode high on his right hip.
“Trooper Demore, I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Joyce walked purposefully around the Charger, stopping at the bottom of the steps. He removed his sunglasses, squinted at Jim, and rubbed his eyes.
“Your buddy inside?” he asked.
Jim nodded, then reached up and removed his own sunglasses.
“He’s inside, but he won’t be talking to you.”
Joyce started up the steps, but stopped a step short of the porch. Jim stood in front of Joyce, not quite ready to give way.
“You know, Demore, even though you got benched, we’re playing on the same team,” Joyce told him.
“You would think so.”
“I just want to ask your buddy a couple of questions.”
Jim put his sunglasses back on and stepped aside.
“Go ahead, ask him anything you want.”
Joyce stepped up onto the porch and paused for a moment. He looked at Jim, smirked a bit, and then shook his head. He walked up to the front door and rapped on it. Joyce announced himself.
“Mr. de la Garza, my name’s Bill Joyce with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement.”
Joyce waited a moment for an answer and then pushed the door open. He was still talking as he entered the living room.
“Mr. de la Garza, I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
Joyce stopped abruptly when he saw Pedro.
“Holy shit, Demore,” Joyce shouted over his shoulder at Jim. “Damn you. Why didn’t you tell me he was dead?”
“I tried,” Jim replied as he stepped off the porch. The volume of his voice went up a notch. “You didn’t sound too interested in what I might have to say.”
“I’m sure-as-shit interested now,” Joyce replied.
Jim didn’t wait for Joyce. He climbed into the Charger and hung a tight U-turn in front of the porch. As Joyce sprinted out the front door, Jim pressed hard on the Charger’s accelerator and the rear wheels spit dirt, shells, and small bits of dried vegetation at the investigator. Joyce opened his mouth to yell, but he found himself dodging a shower of tire spit instead. When he finally did speak, it was a shout. “Son of a bitch” was all that Jim heard.
Joyce stood in front of the porch as the Charger pulled away. In the rearview mirror, Jim watched Joyce stab at his cell phone.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Leaving de la Garza’s, Jim drove back to State Route 29 and followed the highway north. From there, he cut west toward the interstate.
He thought about finding de la Garza dead, his eye socket pierced by what looked like a crossbow bolt. In a way, it made sense. A crossbow made no noise, there would not be any ballistics to match, and no gunpowder residue on the perpetrator. No DNA either, if the killer had been careful.
Given that de la Garza had an automatic weapon sitting ready, next to his chair, he must have expected something. Jim pondered the skill of the killer. To get close enough with a crossbow to put the bolt right through de la Garza’s eye, without being seen or heard, and to be accurate enough to get one shot, one kill through a closed window. Hell of a kill, even for a trained operator with a modern weapon.
Jim had known some Marine recon types that were that good with their silenced small arms. He also knew that some special forces units did use exotic weapons. He had even read that the Marine Commandos of the Indian Navy had, at one time, used modern crossbows with cyanide tipped arrows for sentry elimination, but he also understood that less awkward and much less cumbersome silenced pistols had replaced those. Killing de la Garza with what looked to be a medieval, crossbow bolt had been an almost superhuman act, or maybe supernatural? Jim did not care for the prospect of either.
If he ever needed divine guidance, and, frankly, he never gave it much thought in the past, even in combat, it was now. Jim prayed his first real prayer since the forced Sunday school prayers of his youth. God, I don’t even know if you are there, but if you are, well, I need some help. Whatever you can do, okay?
Remembering from his youth how they always ended the prayers, Jim murmured aloud, “In the name of Jesus, Amen.”
It sounded corny, but he didn’t care. Wh
atever he had to do to get Carl, and, hopefully, himself out alive. If God gave him an edge, great. If not, well, the situation could not be much worse.
Jim reached over to where his cell phone rested in a portable phone mount and checked his voicemail. Major Kant wanted to see him, Bill Joyce had a whole bunch of unanswered questions, and Saffi had done some research for him and had the results. He would explain the situation to Major Kant and to Joyce after he rescued Carl. Calling them now could seal Carl’s fate, especially if Kat had some weird, occult way of finding out. Can’t take that chance.
At this point, the evidence he had to work with consisted of only a video and a voice, and the statement of a dead witness. If he were unsuccessful in saving Carl, explanations would be moot. The dead had no need to explain. Jim deleted all three messages and called Saffi. She answered on the first ring.
“Hi Jim, don’t say anything and don’t ask any questions. Get back to my apartment now. I don’t know how, but Pedro’s dead. God, I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s on the news. Janet Poulet just broke the story. Good Lord, this is crazy. She said he was murdered and someone claims to have seen the Trooper-Gone-Wild driving near where Pedro lives. Get here quick. Bye.”
Before he could get a single word in, Saffi hung up. In the news, already. That’s nuts. I just left de la Garza’s.
He was sure that Bill Joyce would not have called the media. Maybe someone from the coroner’s office had alerted the press when Joyce called it in? Damn, that was fast.
The traffic on the road leading to Pedro’s house had been sparse. It was unlikely that someone had recognized him. He had not seen a single car for ten miles in either direction, both coming to and leaving de la Garza’s.
He glanced up at the sky. Large, heavy clouds bunched up, pushing inland. The trees and brush next to the road shuddered intermittently as the storm in the gulf began to affect the local weather.
He wondered if someone or something was watching. Someone or something that could see him, but that could not, itself, be seen. He felt a chill. Did demons even come out in the daylight? He was not sure he wanted to know. Maybe Saffi could answer some of those questions.
Jim drove past the interstate exit, deciding to take the back streets into Ft. Myers. He had a little time and there was less chance of him running into another state trooper on the local roads.
He kept reminding himself that even if the supernatural existed and demons were running around, or flying around, making his life miserable, they still needed humans to accomplish their purposes. While he admitted to himself that he didn’t know much about stopping demons, taking corrupt and criminal humans off the street — well, that was something he did know how to do. Assuming he would ever have the chance to again.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Saffi wasn’t kidding when she said she’d done some research. She printed out all of the county property records on the de la Garza estate, as well as a satellite view of the property. Jim looked at the paper spread out on Saffi’s kitchen table. Although limited in its detail, the satellite photo did give Jim a view of the surrounding terrain, and it was recent enough to show the fence that encircled the property.
The fence went back beyond where a clearing containing a spring merged into the thick brush surrounding it. Jim saw a number of ways he could approach the property without anyone seeing him, at least anyone human. However, given his experience thus far, human eyes may not be his greatest concern.
Jim stared at the documents laid out on Saffi’s kitchen table. He reached down next to his chair and grabbed a tactical gear bag from the floor.
“Let’s assume the worst,” Saffi told him. “You know that I believe in the Bible’s version of good and evil. So, let’s assume that demonic forces are behind this entire mess. The question then becomes — how do we neutralize them? How do we make it so that you are only dealing with the people and not the occult power behind them?”
“Yeah, okay,” Jim said. “However, if all we are dealing with is simply bad actors, just normal, nasty, bad guys, then all I need is a plan to get in and neutralize a couple of untrained morons and their girlfriend. I don’t need to be a witch doctor to do that.”
Jim hefted the gear bag onto the table. He pulled out a night vision system, a compact, rail-mounted, laser sight, and an extra pistol, a Smith & Wesson Air Lite, five-shot revolver.
“If this is simply a human endeavor, no problem,” Saffi told him. “You have enough firepower and technology here to take out a good-sized nest of bad guys. But if these people are empowered by demons, you’re going to need more than bullets. They’re going to know your every move. They are out there, Jim. In the air. All around us. There is no way you’re going to have the element of surprise and, frankly, without that, you have little hope of getting Carl out alive.”
“Well, that’s a bright, happy assessment,” Jim said. “Look, I admit that something weird has been going on. But the only thing I’ve seen that actually looks demonic is that little freak Kevin Williams from the State Traffic Management Center. Now if you told me that that guy was a demon-possessed serial killer, I would believe you.”
“Okay,” Saffi ventured, “maybe these are just bad actors, but can you really afford to take a chance? You might only get one shot at getting your friend Carl and yourself out of there alive. You need spiritual covering, just in case.”
“You mean like a cross or garlic or something?” Jim smiled. “It might be a little hard to find silver bullets this late in the day.”
Saffi did not look particularly amused.
“Look, Jim, vampires and werewolves don’t show up in the Bible or in church history, so don’t worry about silver bullets or garlic,” Saffi shot back. “However, demons do, and you said yourself that something was weird about this case. Everything points to some type of demonic power at work here, and icons and vegetables are not going to help you. When I say spiritual covering, I mean serious, anointed prayer and it needs to come from at least two people. After all, even though you might not believe it, Jesus said that where two or more are gathered in his name, he would be there. I need someone to pray with. Someone who is a genuine believer. Someone you can trust with your life and Carl’s.”
Jim looked at Saffi. He could not take a chance with Carl’s life. After all, she only asked for prayer and Jim himself had prayed after finding Pedro. It couldn’t hurt and it would keep Saffi occupied, and probably safe.
“I know someone,” Jim said.
***
Pastor Jack Demore drove, and lived in, a nineteen seventy-three, Volkswagen Westfalia, full pop-top van. He could have chosen to live better, but Jack Demore knew that anything he owned would someday just go to someone else, or to rust and corruption, and, frankly, he was much more interested in sending his treasure ahead to heaven. His focus had not always been on spiritual things. Before Vietnam, it was fast cars and little Jenny Shapiro.
He had let his hair grow, quit high school, found a job as a mechanic, and rented an apartment over the garage where he worked. Jenny then moved in with him, much to her parent’s chagrin. Then came the miscarriage, followed closely by the letter that brought him greetings from the President of the United States and an invitation to report to his local draft induction center.
Jack got drafted and a very short haircut. Jenny moved back home with her family. Ultimately, each found redemption. Jenny in a life as a nurse, doctor’s wife, mother, and social maven, and Jack in a life of sharing God’s truth with anyone willing to listen.
Jack pushed the Westfalia’s four-cylinder engine as hard as he dared. This would not be Jack’s first mission to interdict an enemy’s forces. He had spent that final year in ‘nam as a member of a quick-reaction force, a blue team. The “blues” traveled light, fought hard, and went anywhere they were needed. It had been an eerie foreshadowing of his future life as an itinerant preacher and evangelist. The difference being that in Vietnam, Jack’s mission was to send as many of his enemy soldiers as
possible straight to hell. Now, enemy or friend, he only wanted to see people saved from hell, and this time, it was his nephew Jim that needed saving.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Jim used the Google Earth satellite views on Saffi’s laptop to plot out a route onto the property. It would allow him to park a mile west of the estate and approach from the northwest. The brush was less dense there, but a fair smattering of mature trees would provide some cover. Jim had also come up with a simple plan to divert the attention of Carl’s captors long enough to gain the advantage he needed.
Jim popped into Saffi’s bedroom and put on a pair of black tactical trousers, Oakley black tactical sneakers, and a black, long-sleeved polo shirt. He put a tube of Carbomask tactical face paint in his bag. He secured his service pistol in a black Urban Carry holster, concealed, but easy to draw. He shoved his backup gun into an ankle holster and bounced up and down on his toes several times, ensuring nothing rattled. Dressed for battle, his non-tactical gear stashed, he waited for Uncle Jack to arrive. He did not wait long.
The introductions were quick and Jim gave Uncle Jack the “Reader’s Digest” condensed version of the problem and the plan. He would leave it to Saffi to fill in anything else Uncle Jack needed to know. Jim grabbed his gear bag and went to the front door. He turned to Saffi and Uncle Jack.
“They expect me exactly at midnight,” he told them, “and their attention will be on the front gate. Uncle Jack, at 11:55, you show up at the front gate in Saffi’s car, turn out the headlights, and wait. They won’t be looking for me coming at them from another direction.”
“We know that they have at least one gun — Carl’s. I’ll neutralize whoever comes out to open the gate. If for some reason I can’t do that, then as soon as the individual or individuals get to the gate, hit your brights, put it in reverse, and get out of there. The confusion should be enough to allow me to get inside and get Carl loose. Anyone who does not instantly obey my commands gets shot. Any questions?”
The Demon Pool Page 32