Devil's Nightmare (Devil's Nightmare, Book 1)

by Pruneda, Robert

  “Estás loco, amigo,” the chief said. “Are you suggesting that you saw a ghost?”

  “Yeah, crazy. Forget I mentioned it,” I said, standing up. I turned to Don. “Call me as soon as you have the autopsy results.” I glared at the chief, got into the car, and shut the door.

  “I’m sorry, Aaron,” the chief said through the open window. “It’s just—”

  “Forget it. It’s stress. I was probably seeing stupid things from my nightmares.”

  “Nightmares?”

  I tilted my head back, instantly regretting what I had just said. But there was no turning back. “It’s nothing. I’ve been having some trouble sleeping lately. Like I said, it’s just stress.”

  “Esta seguro?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  The chief gazed at me with concerned eyes. “Maybe you should talk to the department—”

  “Oh, hell no. I don’t need a shrink, David.” I started the engine.

  “I’m fine. I just need some shuteye.”

  †

  I slipped a packet of cigarettes inside my jacket pocket as I exited a 7-Eleven convenience store in Downtown Austin. As I approached my car, my phone chimed. I ignored it, but another chime followed. I sat inside the car with the door open while I checked my messages.

  The first message, from Chief Hernandez, said: Mr. Smith is livid. Threatened to sue. We’ll talk tomorrow.

  I shut the door, rested my head back on the seat, and closed my eyes for a minute before reading the other text message.

  I’m sorry, Aaron, Detective Riley said in his text.

  “Not as much as I am, Riley.”

  When I got home, I stepped out of the garage and leaned against the wall to smoke a cigarette. A light breeze carried the plastic film I’d pulled away from the fresh package down the driveway and into a nearby gutter. I slapped the bottom of the packet against the palm of my hand several times to pack the tobacco, and didn’t hesitate to light up. I pulled in a long drag and closed my eyes while the rush of nicotine calmed my nerves. I breathed the smoke out slowly.

  Much of the tension that I had carried for so long disappeared after that first drag. After having gone twelve months without a cigarette, my body responded as if I hadn’t eaten in over a year. I continued to lean against the wall outside the garage of my townhouse apartment and smoked. But after a few more pulls, the initial relieving effects of the cigarette wore off. Then the guilt set in.

  I stared at the tip of the glowing cigarette as I blew out more smoke, and then observed the movement of clouds as they floated in front of the moon and stars. I thought about my last partner, lying in a hospital bed five years ago, with my hand held in hers. We had been partners for almost four years, and had grown very close. We’d never dated, but we still shared a special love for each other that made working together enjoyable.

  When I’d found out Michelle had lung cancer, I considered my own habit of smoking cigarettes. She had urged me to stop, but I was stubborn, and had only agreed in order to make her happy. It wasn’t until that night at the hospital, after she’d lost her battle with cancer, that I had finally fulfilled that promise.

  I took in another puff of the cigarette, tossed it on the ground, and snuffed it out with my shoe. I stared at a dumpster and contemplated whether or not to dispose of the remaining nineteen cigarettes in my possession. I felt the packet of cigarettes inside my jacket pocket. Then I took a deep breath and reconsidered, and went inside the townhouse to work on emptying a six-pack of beer.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Help Me

  I maneuvered the police Charger down I-35 through heavy rain, with the siren wailing and the red and blue dash-mounted strobe lights flashing. A red Ford Mustang swerved in and out of traffic ahead of me, cutting off several other vehicles and nearly clipping one. Cars and trucks changed lanes, as I approached them from behind, attempting to close in on the Mustang. Two police cruisers passed on either side of my vehicle, spraying rainwater onto my windshield and blinding me temporarily, until the wipers pushed the water away.

  Another police car sped by with its supercharged V-8 engine screaming, its siren wailing and lights pulsating. I passed a few other civilian vehicles until the traffic cleared, and then there was only the Mustang and the three pursuing police cars, their strobe lights reflecting off the rainwater, ahead of me. The brake lights on all three of the police cars suddenly lit up. I slowed down, then maneuvered past them. All of them had come to a complete stop.

  “What the hell are you stopping for?” I yelled into my police radio.

  No response.

  I tossed the radio down and pressed my foot on the accelerator. Ahead of me, in an unexpected maneuver, the Mustang slid and spun around, then stopped, its front end facing in my direction. I brought my own car to a stop about three hundred feet from the suspect. I could no longer see the police cars behind me.

  “What the hell?” I yelled into the radio, “Where’s my backup?”

  The headlights of both vehicles suddenly dimmed out, as did the street lights. The driver of the Mustang revved the engine; its powerful V-8 growled in front of me. I flipped the switch for the spotlight, half expecting it not to light up. When it did, the Mustang had vanished.

  The streetlights and the headlights of my car came back to life. The heavy rain had stopped, and all I could hear was the Charger idling. There wasn’t a car anywhere on either side of the Interstate. It was quiet… too quiet. A moment later, a light reflected in the review mirror. I checked over my shoulder. Headlights were approaching, fast, growing larger. Before I had a chance to respond, the Mustang plowed into the rear of my car, jolting it forward into the concrete barrier.

  My face slammed into the deploying air bag. The Mustang flipped end over end, littering the roadway with debris. It slid to a stop on its roof five hundred feet away. Steam gushed out of the radiator, while the back wheels of the car continued spinning.

  I shook my head, pushed the deflated airbag away, and unbuckled my seatbelt. The door wouldn’t open, so I carefully pulled myself out of the car through the broken driver’s side window. After getting out of the damaged vehicle, I drew my pistol and limped towards the overturned Mustang.

  “Show me your hands!” I yelled.

  I pointed the gun at the window opening, then knelt down and scanned the interior of the car. There was nobody inside. I checked the surrounding area to see if the impact of the accident had ejected the driver from the car. Nothing.

  “Help me,” the voice of a young boy groaned from inside the car.

  “Are you okay?” I called out. “Are you hurt?”

  “Help me,” the child’s voice said again.

  I stepped around the vehicle cautiously and peered through the passenger side window with my flashlight. There was no one in the front seats.

  “Help me.”

  The voice sounded like it came from the back seat. I shined the light to the rear interior of the car, but I still couldn’t see anybody inside.

  “Help me,” the small voice repeated. But that time, it came from behind me.

  My body froze. Chills coursed through my body as the voice, now guttural and deep, said, “Help me, Detective Sanders.”

  I stood there, and in a slow and steady movement, pulled back on the slide of my Glock 17 pistol. I heard heavy breathing behind me. I swallowed a dry gulp, and turned around with my finger on the trigger.

  Jackson Smith stood before me, his eyes a solid black. Lightning streaked across the sky behind him, followed by an explosion of thunder, as if announcing his presence.

  He spoke to me in a deep, raspy voice, “Quid feci ardet in inferno anima mea.” Then he screamed, placed his hands over his chest and dug deep into it with clawed fingers. He ripped himself open, revealing a missing heart. He said in a deep, distant voice, “Mortem ulcisci mea ardenti corde.”

  Something burned in my left hand. I looked, then gasped as Jackson’s bloody, beating heart burst into flames in my pa
lm.

  That was when I woke from my nightmare.

  My heart pounded and sweat dripped from my face. I switched on my light and checked the time on my alarm clock. Three o’clock. It was then that I noticed the warm pain coming from the red burn mark on my left palm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Pranksters

  I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Don pointed inside Jackson’s open chest, where everything appeared burnt inside.

  “Where’s the heart?” My breathing became very shallow when I noticed the organ’s absence, eerily bringing to mind my recent nightmare.

  Don pointed to a nearby table. “Inside that tray over there. It’s just as scorched.”

  “The defibrillator caused that?” I had never heard of a failed attempt at defibrillation causing that much damage, even in excessive cases.

  “It is rare, but possible, if he was receiving oxygen and something malfunctioned. That could cause his heart to burn up like that. But if that were the case, you would have known when it happened. To be honest, I’ve never seen this before.”

  “So, what do think? Spontaneous human combustion?”

  “As odd as it may sound, yes, that is a possibility.”

  “Seriously?” I looked at him, surprised. “I was being facetious. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I can tell you one thing that I am very certain of, Aaron.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This boy did not die of a simple heart attack. After performing his autopsy, I’d say that, aside from having a cooked heart, he appeared in good health. And before you ask, he did not die from an aneurysm either.”

  “So, if he didn’t have a heart attack and he didn’t die from an aneurysm, then what killed him?”

  Don grabbed a towel and dried off one of his tools. “Bad case of heartburn?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Don, you have one sick sense of humor.”

  “Have to, in this line of work, my friend.”

  “Seriously, though, what do you really think killed him?”

  Don placed the tool back on the tray and grabbed another one to dry. “To be honest, I haven’t a clue. I didn’t see any injection marks on his body, and I’m not ruling out some form of drug overdose, but I would be surprised if the toxicology results came back with anything foreign in his blood.”

  “Why?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  I stared at Jackson’s body and ran a hand through my hair. I knew it was unjustified, but I somehow felt responsible for the kid’s death. He was fourteen years old and his life was over, with no explanation. His confession only led to more questions. Riley had mentioned something about messages and photos on Jackson’s cell phone. He’d thought I’d be interested in questioning the teen about them. That obviously wasn’t happening, but I did need to find out what he had on that phone.

  “You okay?” Don asked.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking about what Riley found at the kid’s house last night. I need to head over to the lab.”

  “Good luck, my friend.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and Aaron?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t let this get to you.” He glanced at Jackson’s corpse and then focused his attention back on me. “I know it’s rough dealing with kids.” He squeezed my shoulder and encouraged, “This wasn’t your fault.”

  I sighed. “I know, Don. I appreciate that.”

  “I’m serious, Aaron. I can see it in your eyes. You didn’t do anything wrong here. Remember that.”

  “I’ll be fine. Really.” I checked the time on my watch. “Let me know as soon as you get the toxicology results, will you?”

  Don nodded. “You know I will.”

  †

  I sat at my desk and thumbed through a printout of hundreds of text messages pulled from a report that Jackson’s cell phone carrier had faxed over. Most of the messages were simple texts to his friends about football games, girls, and video games. I scanned through page after page of transcripts until I reached the day of Jason Dexter’s and Cullen Chandler’s deaths.

  “Hey, partner. Got your message.”

  Detective Riley entered the office carrying a brown paper bag and a couple of coffees in a drink caddy. He set them on my desk and tossed me a breakfast taco.

  “Thanks.” I pulled open one end of the paper wrapping and bit into the taco. “So,” I said between bites, “what exactly am I supposed to find in these text messages?”

  “Have you read the messages on April thirteenth?” Riley reached into the paper bag and pulled out another breakfast taco for himself.

  I scanned through the text message transcript, but nothing stood out at first. That is until I read a message from Cody Sumner to Jackson Smith.

  “Son of a bitch. I thought Jackson had set this whole thing up.”

  I continued eating my breakfast while flipping back and forth through some of the pages. One particular conversation between Cody and Jackson got my attention. It read:

  Cody: Do U have the book?

  Jackson: Yeah but I thought we were just gonna use my Ouija board.

  Cody: More fun 2 read a spell from that book then act like we’re talking to a demon w/ the board.

  Jackson: Yeah UR right! They gonna shit their pants when Kyle comes out with the axe. LOL! :)

  “Who the hell is Kyle?”

  Riley shrugged as he chewed his taco.

  “We need to find out who this Kyle character is. He could be our John Doe.”

  “Probably,” Riley said, his mouth full.

  “Do me a favor and double-check Jackson’s phone. See if there’s a Kyle in the contacts.”

  “One step ahead of you, partner. I’ve got them on my phone.” Riley pulled out his smart phone, tapped on his screen a couple of times, and swiped his finger up a few times. “Nope! No Kyle anything in his contacts.”

  “Somebody must know who this Kyle is. And there’s got to be a missing persons report on him by now.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. Have you?” Riley said as he tapped on the screen of his phone.

  I shook my head in disappointment and continued reading the transcript.

  Cody: LOL! No kidding! Just don’t forget the book. There’s a creepy spell I want to use.

  Jackson: It won’t make a difference if they can’t understand what UR reading.

  Cody: OMG! I thought U could read Latin?

  Jackson: Yeah but not that good. My dad is the one that can speak it.

  Cody: Well if I read the words can U translate?

  Jackson: Prolly if U pronounce the words right.

  Cody: Don’t worry about that dude. Just make something up. Not like Jason and Cullen will understand what I’m reading anyway.

  Jackson: LOL! I think I can handle that. Those geeks R gonna freak. Gonna need to change their shorts!

  Cody: ROFL! Dude you should bring Austin.

  Jackson: I don’t think so.

  Cody: Oh come on man! Why not?

  Jackson: I couldn’t do that to my lil bro. He’s a good kid.

  Cody: Oh wah! Jason is my best friend and I’m inviting him.

  Jackson: NO!

  Cody: Fine! Whatever dude! Anyway my douche of a stepdad is calling me. Gotta jet.

  Jackson: K. CU tonight.

  Cody: K

  Jackson: Don’t mention this to Austin! He’ll tell my dad and then we’ll both be in deep shit.

  Cody: Don’t worry I won’t. Later.

  Jackson: Later.

  I leaned back in my chair, not believing what I had just read. “Cody was behind this whole prank.”

  “You haven’t seen the photos yet.” Riley tapped on the screen on his phone. “I just sent you a link to the network where I saved them.”

  I waited about thirty seconds before a message popped up on my computer screen. I opened up the email from Riley and then clicked on the link that directed me to a page on a secure server. A smal
l window popped up asking me for a username and password.

  The file opened as soon as I logged in. There were over three hundred photos in the file. “You couldn’t have sorted these out for me? Which one did you want me to look at?”

  “Oh, sorry. Didn’t think about that.” Riley reached for the mouse. “May I?”

  I pushed my chair back and finished eating my taco while Riley sorted through the images. Then I wadded up the wrapper and tossed it in the trash. Feeling impatient, I grabbed the text message transcript and browsed through the pages for any messages from that Kyle friend Jackson had mentioned. I scanned through every page, but didn’t find a single entry. Frustrated, I tossed the pages back on my desk.

  “Done sorting yet?”

  “Almost there.” Riley clicked on the mouse a few times and typed on the keyboard. After another couple of clicks he said, “Okay, there are five photos in this file.”

  I rolled my chair back up to the desk and double-clicked the first image file. It maximized into a window. The image was dark. I could barely make anything out except for a couple of shadowy figures. I double-clicked on the title bar of the window to increase the size of the image to fill the entire screen.

  “It’s still too dark. Is there a way to clean up the image?”

  “Click on that yellow icon, the one that looks like a sun underneath the title bar.”

  I clicked on the icon. “Okay, now what? Oh, never mind. I see.” One of the three sliders had clear labeling for brightening the image, which made even a computer sloth like me comfortable making the adjustment.

  “That still looks washed out,” Riley said. “We could have someone in the lab enhance the images.”

  “No, I don’t want to wait for that. See what you can do.”

  Riley took control of the mouse and adjusted the brightness, sharpness and contrast levels enough to where the image was still fairly dark, but bright enough and sharp enough to where I could see what was in the photo.