Jack hadn’t told anyone but Perry about the devil worship. If his boss found out about it, he’d be fired. Jack resolved that he would finish this one favor and be done with the whole thing. He wouldn’t accept the football tryout, even if that came through. He would go back to Sarah tonight and tell her that it was over unless she was willing to dump the Satanists. He knew she wouldn’t, but he needed to draw the line. It was time to step up and be the man in this relationship.
Jack looked over at Buck. He’d been quiet for some time; his head was rolled over against the side window, his mouth hanging wide open. “Good company,” Jack muttered under his breath.
Jack’s eyes were starting to pinch. He was jolted awake by the Welcome to Clewiston sign; Sweetest Town in America referred to its roots in the sugar cane industry. He pulled to the side of the road for a moment to punch the street address into his phone. He was glad to see that he wasn’t too far away; the property was no more than five to ten minutes northwest of town. His stomach began to churn as he neared his destination. It was similar to the feeling he would get before a football game—nervous energy, he called it, a lack of confidence in his own abilities coupled with a jolt of adrenalin. He started to feel queasy and jumpy, so he twisted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. The reality of the situation struck his funny bone and he laughed to himself. He was driving to some old estate in the middle of Hell’s Half-Acre, Florida, delivering an envelope to someone who worshiped the devil. There was every reason to feel uneasy, and he did.
“Okay, you crazy bastard, drop off the envelope and get the heck out of here,” he murmured. The deep resonance of his voice helped him settle down a bit, and it also startled Buck out of his nap.
“Where we at, boy?” He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Clewiston.”
“Okay, I see where we are, just a little farther—take that upcoming right.”
Within ten minutes they were idling in front of the driveway they sought; an old crooked sign with Marsh printed on it confirmed the correct address. He turned into the dirt laneway, which was in poor condition, full of potholes and tree debris. It led through a large field of uncut grass, roughly three hundred yards square. He figured he must be nearing Lake Okeechobee, as he had been following its shore to his right for the past five minutes. As he guided his car forward he could see a large stand of moss-covered trees ahead, their majestic old branches hanging low, nearly touching the ground. Behind the old trees loomed a rundown multi-story plantation house. Lights were on in several rooms, mostly on the main floor.
An old Mercedes sedan sat out in front. He pulled up behind it and turned off the ignition. Reaching under the front seat he pulled out the envelope that had been given to him, stuck it in his pants pocket, got out of the car and stretched his arms. The night was warm and clear, and the bright moon and stars made it easy for him to see. He could smell the mustiness of the lake and hear the omnipresent crickets and frogs.
Buck eased from the car. “That ride’s gonna give me a bad back, son. Now let’s see how the Marshes are doing.” He looked at his watch. “Ten thirty, not bad timing.”
“Why me, Buck? Why not someone who knows these people?”
Buck stopped and faced him. “That’s her way, son. She’s a hard-assed businesswoman. She’s testing you. She’s offering you a chance, but she wants something on you. She’s got something on all of us.”
Jack looked up at the stars, then back at the large man. “Maybe I don’t want shit on me. Here, you take the envelope. This is stupid.”
Buck put his hand on his shoulder. “Let’s just get this over with and get back to civilization in time for a drink.”
Jack stood, looking away from the man for a few moments, weighing his options. It was like standing at the edge of a cliff before jumping into the water below. You knew it would be okay, but you still had that niggling feeling that it might hurt a bit, or be really cold.
Buck smiled and turned towards the house. “I’ll go with you, but let’s take the stairs slowly. My knees are bad, especially after being squished up in that thing you call a car. Besides, I haven’t seen the Marshes in some time.”
Jack hesitated for a moment, but then followed Buck.
The two of them walked up to the front porch. As they neared the house Jack could see that the place was in a bad state of repair. Shutters hung sideways off many of the windows, and it looked as if a paint brush had not touched the edifice in dozens of years. Most of the wood was grey and untreated.
The stairs that led to a large wraparound veranda groaned with Buck’s weight, and when Jack added his, he thought the steps would buckle. As they approached the front door, he noticed that it was cracked open four or five inches. Light flooded out from between the door and its frame. Buck grabbed a large brass doorknocker and dropped it down three times on the door; the sound of metal on wood echoed within the house. He waited for a few minutes, but no one came to the door. He banged the knocker again, this time harder.
“Gotta be home; maybe they’re out back.” Buck pulled the screen door open and stepped into a large foyer. “Hello?” His voice resonated through the quiet house.
Jack reluctantly followed him in. The old place reminded him of the church his mother had taken him to when he was a young boy. It smelled of polished wood and stale air. His better judgment told him to leave, but he had been told that the envelope was to be hand-delivered, and he was already here. A grand circling staircase with an ornate wooden banister led upstairs from the center of the room. To the side were two large openings. The headers were intricately carved with leaves and intertwining vines. Both rooms were dark. Jack knocked on the wall one more time. “Mr. Marsh?” He moved to place the envelope on a side table, but Buck shook his head.
“There’s a lot of money in that envelope. I’d feel better if I saw it in the old guy’s hand.” He stepped aside, his weight creaking on the old hardwood flooring.
Jack stuck his head into the room on the right. The windows were open and the sound of crickets and frogs could be heard through several screened windows, through which streamed beams of moonlight. The room was large and ran to the back of the house. The walls were covered with portraits of people, most from a long time back, judging from the clothing. What caught his eye was a large photo of Seminole Indians sitting along the bank of a lake or river, with dozens of fish laid out on the grass in front of them. There was another of a male Seminole adorned in full tribal regalia. In the middle of the room was an old snooker table. There were numerous burn marks around the wood coping, and the cloth on the table was old and faded.
He turned and went back to the other room. Buck followed him in. The windows were similarly open and afforded enough light to see a large dining table in disarray. There were three place settings with half-finished steak dinners and a nearly full bottle of red wine. Forks and knives were scattered randomly. It looked as if the diners had left in a hurry. A napkin lay on the floor. A swinging door led from the room to the right; it was covered with years of dirty handprints where it had been pushed open. When Jack turned on the light switch, he could see more signs of distress. An overturned chair on the far side of the room, and a broken wine glass beside it.
Buck walked around the table. “Looks like someone crashed the party.”
“Look Buck, let’s just leave the damn envelope in here and get going. What the hell do you think happened in here?”
Buck cleared his throat. “Let’s go see if they’re out back. Then we’ll call the police if we can’t find them.”
Calling the police was the first sane idea he’d heard since they arrived.
Buck put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and ushered him through the doorway into the kitchen.
Jack shrugged the man’s hand away and gave him a stern look. “Don’t do that again,” he said as he folded the envelope and slid it into his pocket.
Buck backed off, raising both hands in the air in apology. He looked to the side instead of eye-t
o-eye with Jack.
Jack moved to the door, gingerly pushing it open to get a peek into the expansive country kitchen. The room was dark, but there was just enough light to see the oven clock. He tried to flip a couple of wall switches, but none worked. He moved slowly toward the other side of the room, one foot after the other. He could smell the strong scent of garlic, onions, and cooked meat. His foot crunched on broken glass—very fine glass. He bent down and saw the remains of several light bulbs that had been taken out of a light which hung over the large central cooking island.
“Time to get the fuck out of here,” he whispered to himself. He heard the crunch of glass next to him. He looked up to see Buck smiling down at him, holding a gun. There was another figure by the kitchen door. Before he had a chance to react, he felt a heavy thump on the back of his head. His forehead hit the countertop just above his left eye, and then there was darkness.
8
Escape
IT WAS A BAD dream—surely it had to be. The winding road, sugar cane, thick like a jungle on each side, pushing in, brushing against him. His head hurt; the smell of garlic. Jack rolled onto his side, but there was no pillow. He reached to the side to find it. Instead, his hands encountered something wet and slippery, and the hard floor. He put his hand to his mouth and jolted upright. Christ! He wasn’t dreaming—there was no mistaking the smell and taste of blood, but it was cold. He felt the all-too-familiar sensation of his head and ears ringing, and had an acrid taste in his mouth. It was slowly coming back to him.
He’d been hit hard many times in his football career, but this time he hadn’t been wearing a helmet, and he took a few moments to gather himself. He must have caught the corner of the counter; a crust of blood was beginning to form just above his eye. He touched his head gently—there would be a good welt. Damn, it hurt. There was blood on his hand, lots of blood. He was lying in a pool of it. There simply was too much blood to have come from his small head wound. He felt around; the floor was covered with it. There was a knife beside his left hand, he pushed it away. Grabbing the edge of the sink, he pulled himself to his feet and nearly toppled over. He fumbled around the counter looking for a tap, and in the process he knocked over a stack of dishes and cooking utensils. He did his best not to let any drop to the floor, but there was really no sense in trying to be quiet anymore. He put the dishes in the sink, turned on the water, and did a quick clean-up of his hands, wiping them on his pants to dry them.
He tried to calm himself. A cold sweat formed on his brow, and his heart was pounding. His eyes darted to the ground to his right. He could see that something—or more likely, someone—had been dragged through the back door of the kitchen. It was an old screen door that looked like it led to an outdoor porch. What the hell had happened here? He pulled open the door; the handle was covered in sticky, half-dried blood. His eyes were drawn to the middle of an expansive backyard. In the distance he could see moonlight reflecting off Lake Okeechobee; however, he could also see several large candles lit in what appeared to be a large circle halfway to the water’s edge. He moved down the steps quickly and ran toward the light, stopping for a minute as pain wracked his head. He was dizzy and nearly dropped to his knees. He looked around for signs of danger but didn’t see anyone. Where the hell did Buck go? Is he still here? He remembered the gun in Buck’s hand. He remembered the other man.
As he neared the candles, he could see that there were two lumps in the middle of a large circle. People—dead people, by the looks of it. They lay side by side, and as he got closer he could see that their throats were cut nearly two-thirds through their necks. They were placed upon a chalk dust pentagram, their eyes blankly staring up at the starry sky. Jack fell to his knees and retched up whatever remained in his stomach. The description of the Marshes fit: mid-seventies, both with grey hair, well-dressed. He looked up at the moon; if he’d been a dog, he would have howled. Everything was sinking in. They set me up. The deception had been so simple, now that he could look back at it. “Fuck!” he yelled.
Jack’s head jerked toward the house as he heard the sound of two car doors slamming shut. He ran toward the corner of the plantation house. “Shit!” He pursed his lips as he realized that he had left the knife in the kitchen. His fingerprints would be all over the place. “Fucking perfect . . . bloody fucking perfect.” He moved around the corner of the house and looked into the window of the game room. He heard knocking on the door through the screened window, then he saw someone step into the front foyer. “Christ, it’s a fuckin’ cop,” he whispered under his breath. He saw the beam of a flashlight coming his way as a second police officer cautiously moved toward him, most likely heading for the back door of the house. Jack had no choice and ducked down under the foundation of the house. He prayed that there were no snakes or spiders as he slid a dozen feet under the old building. It seemed an eternity for the officer to pass where he was hiding. The flashlight probed back and forth and occasionally under the house, but thankfully nowhere near where he lay.
Jack waited for the man to pass into the backyard. He knew that there wouldn’t be much time once the bodies were discovered. Inching his way from under the house, he thought about turning himself in, but the whole mess looked incriminating. Without dusting himself off, he tiptoed to the front of the house. He heard a female voice shouting from the backyard. There was no time to be cautious at this point—he broke for his car, which fortunately was not blocked, the cops having parked their dark, unmarked car beside the Mercedes.
Jack fumbled for his keys and prayed that his car would start. It usually took a few tries when the engine was cold. With numb hands, he pulled up the handle for the door, his fingers feeling like useless sausages. The door opened with a creak and he slipped in. He pulled the door partly shut to avoid making noise, then pulled the envelope full of cash out of his pocket and quickly stuck it under his seat. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine groaned. He turned the ignition again, stomping on the gas pedal. The four banger engine chugged to life, as did the headlights. He jammed the car into reverse and slammed the gas pedal down, firing backwards down the driveway, bouncing through potholes until he reached the grass field, which made up most of the property. He swung the front end around and then jammed the gear shift into drive, nearly dropping the transmission out of the bottom of the car.
Jack turned his head and saw the lights of the police car come to life. He stomped his foot to the floor and the Ford Taurus groaned and whined before lurching toward the side road. It took him less than a minute to reach it. The police car was in pursuit, its lights bouncing up and down as the vehicle pounded through the potholed lane. Jack took the corner onto the road to the left a little too quickly and banged into the signpost on the driveway, making a gouging noise along the side of his car. “Damn,” he muttered as he pushed the accelerator flat to the floor. The old Ford whined once again before the gears found some traction, the front wheel drive bucking up and down as the car gained forward momentum.
The county highway was just ahead. He could see the headlights behind him in the rear view mirror turning onto the road. He caught a movement out of the corner of his left eye; perhaps it was that split second that saved him as an old Chevy pickup shot toward him from a concealed spot in the brush at the side of the road. Jack jammed on the brakes and the pickup shot in front of him, the back corner of the truck clipping the front right corner of the Taurus, causing his assailant’s vehicle to spin backwards. He floored the gas pedal, reaching the highway within a minute. Jack didn’t spare a glance to see if any other cars were coming until he reached the highway.
Then he quickly looked over his shoulder. The pickup, luckily, had slowed down the police car for a few precious moments. Jack’s heart was beating hard and it took a little skip as he thought through his options. He passed through Clewiston, doing more than one hundred. He was not worried about speeding—oddly enough, he found it quite liberating. Taking a deep breath, he looked back and saw the headlights of the two
vehicles. He didn’t know the involvement of the pickup in this mess. Buck? He figured his car should be able to outpace it, but he knew that the police car could catch his old beater and sure enough, it was making ground on him.
The cold hard reality hit him like a brick as he navigated the dark road. He’d been duped, played like a bad hand. The fuckers were all in on it. Fucking bastards. “THAT FUCKING BITCH!” The sex had been more than exceptional . . . he shook his head. “Too good to be true . . . Buck, fucking Buck. I’m so damned stupid.” He banged his hands on the steering wheel.
Jack turned the car through a long, gradual turn. Coming up on his right was a strip mall; ahead, the road curved to the left. He pulled the gear shift into low gear and the car sounded like it was going to explode as the engine revved, pushing the tachometer into the red. The car slowed, however, without the brake lights coming on. He swung the car to the right, barely stopping it from rolling over as it hit the new asphalt in the mall’s parking lot. He pulled the car in behind the buildings and slammed on the brakes, then got out of the car and ran to the edge of the wall and peeked around the corner. His head was killing him and a wave of nausea rolled through him. He watched as the police car roared through the turn and continued down the highway. He waited for a few moments, anticipating the arrival of the pickup. A minute or so later he heard the growl of the truck’s engine, and watched it slowly moving its way through the small town. He could see two men in the vehicle, their heads moving from side to side as the vehicle passed. Jack ducked back behind the wall, holding his breath as if it would matter. The truck stopped, and Jack resisted the urge to run. After a minute, and to his utter relief, the truck accelerated and moved on down the road. As it cleared the last of the commercial area, the engine revved and the vehicle sped off down the highway.
Devil in the Grass Page 9