Devil in the Grass

by Christopher Bowron

  “You are over the line here, Ms. LePley. The Governor and I have been discussing the matter and are in accord. Our meeting has come to an end.” He began to stand.

  “James.”

  The way his name rolled off her tongue froze him. He slowly sat.

  “We are not finished, James.” She smiled. Her breath, or maybe it was her scent, smelled gloriously of lavender, or maybe it was honeysuckle. He wanted her to continue talking. “That’s better.”

  Phyllis sat quietly with her hands neatly resting on the table, her eyes vacant.

  “I would like to invite you, James, to a dinner tomorrow. It would be nice for you to meet our consortium. I think you will find what they have to say quite . . . enlightening.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “I would like you to bring Mrs. Hunter.” She glanced at Phyllis and smiled slightly.

  “She would be happy to come.”

  Henrietta stood up, and Hunter followed her lead. “My people will contact yours with the arrangements.”

  15

  Clues

  RICK RAMIREZ AND LANI Green sat in the Lee County Sheriff’s offices off Ben C. Pratt Parkway, close to Highway 41.

  “Not a word, nothing,” said Lani. “Since we lost Janie Callahan’s tail there hasn’t been a peep.”

  Rick shook his head. “You’re the one who told me the fox always comes to ground. He’s holed up with his relatives and, if he is guilty, he might just stay out there for a good long time. It’s only been a few days.” He ran his hand through his hair. He stood to look at the map pinned to the corkboard wall. “What now?”

  Lani moved to stand beside him, likewise observing the map. “Let’s review our progress . . . or lack of it. We didn’t get much out of the cultists. Every lead we’ve followed thus far has turned out to be an alias or red herring. No one in any alleged position of authority has turned out to be solid.”

  “Is this typical?”

  “It’s a little bit more hush-hush than what I’ve seen. Most Satanic cults are quite visible, they have agendas, they need to be seen. This one is different. Nothing is registered. We’re doing background checks on all the names we’ve uncovered. We’ve interviewed five couples who check out. None claim to have any interest in the Brotherhood of Set beyond casual participation. They claim that the leaders of the cult never use their real names. There is a High Priestess, several Deacons, and an old lady known as the Matriarch, whom we assume is Henrietta LePley. From what they say, Walker is fairly new to the congregation.”

  “Kinda spooky if you ask me.”

  Lani stared at the map of southwest Florida. “Nothing to be spooked about. Most of the stuff these whackos claim to do is just crap with no substance behind it.” She traced a few lines on the map with her finger. “We don’t have much information besides the route that Walker must have taken that night. We know that he was likely behind the death of Eric McFadden. The blood samples match those taken during his drug rehab in Cincinnati.”

  “Both of these guys show up at Walker’s girlfriend’s apartment. McFadden lives in Saint James City out on Pine Island. He has a brother who’s an accountant in Naples. The family owns a lot of property. Have we checked out the brother?”

  Lani picked up her coffee cup, taking a sip. “I’ve left a few messages for him, asking for an appointment to see him. His secretary says he will not be at work for the next week due to the death of his brother.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Inland somewhere. Remember, I’m not from here, you’d know better. Quite a ways south off Immokalee Road, right in the middle of the Everglades. Can’t get an answer at the home.”

  “We’ll be going to that funeral.”

  “Nothing in the papers, and I’ve called all of the local funeral homes. They normally know where these things will be held, theirs is a competitive business. The body is still at the morgue. No arrangements made to date.”

  “And no affiliations with the Satanists?”

  “Dead end there.”

  “I’ve got a friend out on Pine Island. I’ll give her a call and see if she knew this guy, or his family.”

  “We’ve contacted other notorious cults in the US and Canada to see if there are any affiliations. There are none, though a high-ranking member of the Church of Satan indicated that there is a sect of Satanists from South Florida that correspond with them from time to time, but they are secretive, which we already know.”

  Lani paused for a moment, pacing in front of Rick’s desk. “What nags at me is the fact that Walker doesn’t fit the profile. What if he was just chasing a pretty girl? What if he’s not guilty? He will try to clear himself. The law firm will have met with him by now—no doubt it was Jane Callahan. She will resurface. You still have the law office under surveillance?”

  “What do you think?” Rick huffed.

  “I didn’t mean that, of course you do.”

  Lani’s cell rang. After a short conversation she hung up. “There’s been a shoot-up at one of the Seminole villages, at least four dead. The Reserve Police are asking us to come in and have a look, they don’t have the forensic equipment to handle the situation. We might have to wait for this nasty storm to pass first. It would be okay if we could get there by road, but evidently it’s on an island.”

  16

  The Hunt

  “THE FUCKER’S CIRCLED THE island three times now,” Bobby said as he stood on the beach, his long, black hair blowing sideways in the wind of the heavy storm. He held his rifle cocked in his right arm; Jack stood beside him. They watched the airboat as it bobbed in the same place out in the middle of the small lake. Rain pelted them in the face, making it hard to see, much less focus on the distant craft.

  Bobby yelled, “I don’t recognize that prop boat. Not one of ours, or the other companies’. One of those fuckers who live on the edge of the swamp,” he said, his teeth chattering.

  Jack nodded. “There’s two of them. These the assholes Gramps was talking about?”

  Bobby reached behind his back and pulled out a handgun from his belt. “Could be. There’s lots who live in the swamp, but not many who have money. Take this.” He showed Jack how to cock the weapon. “Just point and shoot.”

  Jack was surprised at how heavy it felt. He’d never held a real handgun, only the rifles Josh and he had used to hunt small animals in his youth. He felt empowered by the shiny silver weapon.

  The boat’s motor roared and the craft lurched toward the island.

  “Fuckers are comin’ in.”

  Jack’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth felt uncomfortably dry.

  The man at the front of the boat dropped down to a knee; it was hard to see exactly what he was doing. Jack thought he saw a few puffs of smoke, then heard the whistling of bullets past his head. He’d never been shot at before, and it was surreal enough to stun him, but only for a moment.

  “Yeah, and they’re fucking shooting at us,” he yelled at Bobby. He heard a dull thud beside him and the clatter of Bobby’s rifle hitting the roots of a nearby tree. The young Seminole lay motionless on the beach. Not knowing what else to do, Jack dropped to the ground and rolled beside Bobby. As he did, he put his hand into something mushy and hot. He looked at his hand, it was covered in a mess of brain matter, blood and shattered bone.

  “Fuck me,” Jack yelled as he jumped back.

  The top of Bobby’s head was gone, gore from inside spilling out onto the sand. Jack felt his chin start to quiver. The airboat was getting very close to the island, so he forced himself to move. After grabbing the rifle that lay on the ground, he rolled behind an old rowboat that was half-buried in the sand. He pointed the handgun at the boat, brushed his hair out of his eyes and squeezed the trigger. The recoil of the weapon numbed his wrist. He’d expected one shot, but it kept firing, his hand progressively pulling upward. The first three bullets hit the water in front of the boat. The next three pierced its bow. He could see wood and metal flying back into
the boat. The driver veered sharply to the left. He wasn’t sure if he’d hit either of the men, but his effort deterred their attempt to beach. He pulled the trigger again. Three more bullets went in the direction of his attackers, all of them missing their intended mark. The magazine was empty. The prop boat raced to the left of the tiny island.

  Jack moved to Bobby’s body, half-crawling half-stumbling, and searched through the dead man’s pockets. He found a full magazine for the handgun and several loose high-powered rifle cartridges. He wasn’t sure how to load the weapons, but he knew that he was better off having them than not.

  “Poor bastard,” he blurted as he turned and ran for the chickee hut. He knew that the men were searching for him, and he also knew that they were a lot better at this sort of thing. He calmed himself and thought about his options. They would expect him to run to the huts. He would have to get out quickly. He anticipated they might run the boat up on the other side of the island. “Okay, what next?” he mumbled. He stuffed a couple of bottles of water into his pockets and went out the back door. Looking around, he saw a large stand of trees off to one side of the small island, and he ran for their cover. Once there, he slumped down behind three large palmettos, trying to catch his breath. He fumbled with the handgun with shaking hands. He’d seen enough action movies to know that there should be a catch or something similar at the top of the handle. He pushed a small lever forward and the empty magazine popped out. He jammed the full one in and it clicked into place. He nodded to himself, encouraged that he might not be totally useless. The wind and rain were becoming nearly unbearable; the warm pellets stung his bare skin and eyes. He peeked around the tree and scanned the immediate area. He couldn’t see anyone.

  He decided to skirt the edge of the island to see if his attackers had landed their boat. Halfway to where he anticipated they might be, he found four kayaks turned upside down on the beach, most likely used for fishing by those using the camp. He ducked behind them. He could hear the low growl of the airboat from up ahead, but he couldn’t see any movement. He looked to the line of sawgrass which formed the north and east shores of the small lake, then back toward where he guessed the idling craft to be.

  He flipped one of the kayaks over, grabbed a paddle and pushed it out into the lake. The sawgrass shoreline was a few hundred yards away. It wouldn’t be easy in this wind, but he had no choice. His attackers appeared to know what they were doing, and he had to be honest with himself—he didn’t. He would be paddling crosswind, so it wouldn’t be too bad, and though visibility was poor, that would aid in his escape. He was fortunate to have spent a lot of time in a kayak as a kid and when deploying shark bait in the sometimes rough and windy gulf. He smelled the exhaust from the boat once he was downwind from the island. He could hear the low rumble of the boat’s motor; the hunters couldn’t be far away.

  Each stroke of the paddle was desperate. He needed to get to the line of tall grass before his pursuers returned to their boat. He would easily be spotted if they returned and looked out onto the water. The corner of the island provided a bit of cover, but once into the middle of the lake he was vulnerable. He reminded himself that rhythm was just as important as brute force. Use your legs. He quickly settled into a steady groove and he made good time crossing the short expanse of water.

  A surge of adrenalin ran through him as he remembered the woman he had been looking after. It was too late to go back for her now; her fate would be sealed. Or maybe not: maybe she would be able to find a nook in the island in which to hide.

  Each yard passed in what seemed like slow motion. He drew a heavy breath when the back of the kayak cleared the edge of the grass, hopefully hiding him from his pursuers, but his relief was short-lived as the wind whipped the sharp edges of sawgrass against his face, neck and arms.

  Jack knew he needed to go west. If he went east, he would end up hopelessly lost in the Everglades. The storm was coming from the west, which meant he needed to head directly into its teeth to get out of the swamp. The reality of the task ahead hit him like a cold slap; he might have to paddle for hours, maybe through the night. The reeds were being blown in his direction, making it nearly impossible to push the blades of the kayak forward. His skin was being whipped raw from the grass. He decided that he would have to go sideways to the north and hope to find a canal before it became dark.

  ****

  The prop boat’s engine roared and Jack felt his stomach rise in his throat. He sat motionless. They must have seen him; the craft was coming in his direction. He pulled the handgun out of his belt and sat as low in the boat as possible, waiting to fire if he had the chance. He feared that the boat might run him over. If he survived the collision, the thought of snakes and alligators and how difficult it would be to swim in the grass scared the daylights out of him. The boat passed behind him, missing the point at which he’d entered the sawgrass by several yards. He hunched down as low as he could, and was lucky not to be seen. The larger boat needed to keep up some momentum to push through the tall grass. It headed north. He turned the kayak around and moved to the crude path forged by the prop boat. He gambled that they would not expect him to follow them. The paddling was much easier and he made good progress.

  The airboat stopped; Jack guessed it must be several hundred yards ahead of him. He hoped that his assailants had found a canal. He heard the engine rumble again and the boat came back in his direction, but three hundred yards to the west. He pushed hard and within a few minutes he paddled into one of the east-west canals he’d been hoping to find. His assailants seemed to be sweeping the area, searching for him using the canal as a point of reference. He would have to take baby steps. When the airboat was searching the tall grass, he paddled down the canal towards the west and the setting sun. When the boat returned to the flat water of the canal, he hid in the sawgrass.

  The backs of his hands were ripped raw and his face was an open wound from the sharp reeds. Jack played cat and mouse with the airboat for what seemed ages. The sun was starting to get low. The game appeared to end when his assailants doubled back to where they had started the chase. He thought he could hear the motor open up, possibly heading back into the lake. For now, it appeared he had evaded the hunters.

  ****

  “Goddamn it Jimmy, I told you he went in farther to the left.”

  Jimmy puckered up his face even more than was normal. “I had the f-fucker, he musta moved.”

  “We’ve been going back and forth for more than an hour now. Walker could be heading toward Okeechobee. But I doubt it; that would be a death trap for him, he’d be doing our job for us. He’ll head for dry land, to the west. That’s what I would do, and it’s his only chance to get out of here. There’s a levee seven miles to the west, runs north-south. We’ll wait for him there. If he doesn’t show up, we’ll know that he’s dead. No way he’s surviving if he heads east.”

  Jimmy nodded.

  “Let’s go back to the island for a bit, just in case he doubles back. It’ll take him a few hours to reach the levee; we can wait there for an hour or so, just in case he wants to make our lives a little easier. Then we head for the south end of the levee. The northern edge is a dead end.”

  Jimmy threw down the throttle and headed out of the sawgrass.

  ****

  The canal ran toward the west. If it didn’t veer, it should lead Jack to safety, to a road or possibly one of the rivers that meandered through the Everglades. He was twenty miles too far to the south to find the Caloosahatchee, which was the biggest watercourse in the area. He paddled for at least an hour; the sun was just about to set in front of him, which meant he was still heading west—the right direction.

  Jack was falling into a semi-stupor, his strokes now shorter and less effective. The bases of both his thumbs were worn raw, and hurt with each stroke. A movement to his right startled him. The reeds shifted and a large alligator moved out of the grass and swam slowly towards the kayak. He was not sure if the creature was interested in him or if he wa
s simply in the way as the gator went about its normal business. He’d seen many smaller gators thus far, but none that would have posed any danger. If this creature decided to turn on him, he would be in trouble. Its head was massive and its back broad. He guessed it to be at least ten feet long. He stopped paddling and watched the beast swim towards the kayak. The gator was definitely aware of him, but didn’t appear aggressive; its cold, reptilian eyes just watched him. He pulled the rifle off his back and made sure that it was cocked and ready to fire. He leveled the weapon, trying to keep his aim between the middle of its eyes. He wasn’t sure how far the report of the gun would carry in the wind, but he waited for the last possible second, not wanting to take a chance. As the beast neared the kayak, it submerged. He held his finger on the trigger following the dark figure as it swam under the boat. It took an eternity to pass. He drew a heavy breath as the gator broke water near the other side of the canal, quickly disappearing into the long sawgrass. He sat motionless for a few minutes and drank the last of his precious water. He thought how ironic it would be to be eaten by a giant gator after surviving multiple attacks by a bunch of bloodthirsty Satanists.

  The paddling was monotonous, his back was aching, as was his wounded leg; the driving rain stung his eyes. He started thinking about what he would do if and when he made it back to civilization. Perry had been right, he was a bloody fool. Now retribution was all he could think of. I’m going to put a bullet right between that bastard Buck’s eyes.

  He was jolted back to reality as he nearly ran aground on the bank of the canal as it abruptly turned to the north. Ahead of him was a large embankment running north to south along the canal. He pulled the kayak up onto shore and scrambled to the top. The slope was treacherous from the mud created by the heavy rainfall. Once on top, he could see that a dirt road ran along the narrow strip of land as far as he could tell in either direction. He sat down in the mud for a moment half in thought, half in exhaustion.