He retrieved the guns and shoved the kayak as deep as he could manage into the tall grass. He slung the rifle over his back and started walking to the north. He walked for at least half an hour before the levee ended in a large reservoir. Damn. He would have to swim across. No way. Who knows what’s in that water. He turned and went south.
It took him about an hour to reach a tall, wire mesh fence blocking his path. In the darkness he could see a roadway on the other side. In the middle of the fence was a doorway, chained and padlocked. He rattled the lock; it was firmly in place, but really old and rusty. He took out the handgun and fired a shot into its center. It took three more shots to shatter the lock, sending the pieces falling to the ground. He opened the mesh door and walked towards a wooden bridge that traversed a small drainage ditch. As he neared the other side of the bridge, a figure stepped out from behind a sign. Even in the heavy wind and rain, Jack could see the rifle pointed at his chest. He thought about reaching for the handgun he’d just put back in his belt, but he heard a man’s voice from behind him.
“I wouldn’t try that if I were you, Walker. My brother is the best shot in the county and there’s nothing we’d like more than to shoot you and leave you in this ditch for the gators. Put the rifle on the ground. Slowly.”
Jack slowly pulled the gun over his head. and placed it onto the wooden floorboards of the bridge.
“Kick it into the water.”
Jack followed orders and nudged the rifle over the edge. The wind was howling too hard to hear the splash. He got a good look at both men as they rounded him off the end of the bridge. The man with the rifle was five or six inches shorter than him, chubby, dark hair and had a sour look on his face. Jack got the feeling that he would not hesitate to pull the trigger—there was something in his eyes that told him so. The second man was nearly as tall as he, maybe an inch shorter. He was blond and wore some sort of safari outfit. Both men, like Jack, were drenched to the bone.
“Put your hands on your head.”
He obeyed the order.
The man with the hat reached behind him and removed his pistol. He gave him a little pat down and shoved him toward the end of the bridge. The shorter man backed up with the rifle pointed at the center of Jack’s chest.
“You gave us a good run, Walker,” said the taller man. “But I was right: nowhere else for you to go. You see, we know these parts better than most. Either you end up as alligator food out in the middle of the Everglades, or you break for the coast. Pretty simple, and this is the only way out for miles. It would be a lot easier to put a bullet in the back of your skull right now and drag you back into the swamp for the gators. But . . . ” his face became clenched with fury. “Seems you killed our brother Eric.”
“Eric?”
“Don’t be so fucking stupid,” yelled the sour-faced man. “You broke his fucking neck.”
Jack tried to hide his sudden understanding.
The taller man pushed him forward again. “We’re not going to give you the satisfaction of a quick death.”
They herded Jack back toward the swamp on the other side of the fence. As they neared it, Jack felt the blow of something hard on the back of his head. The last thing he remembered was falling face first into the mud at the base of the walkway.
17
All In
JANIE STEPPED OUT OF the cab in front of her house, leaned in, and paid the driver. It was late and she needed a bath, a stiff drink, and some sleep. Her hair was pasted to her head and she was sure that she smelled bad. She lit a cigarette and glanced over at the car that sat parked across the street a couple houses down—cops, most likely. She stood halfway up her driveway and stared at the car. She may as well give them a good look.
She unlocked her door and headed straight for the freezer where she found a lonely bottle of Grey Goose vodka. She poured three fingers into a tumbler and tossed in a few ice cubes, then sank down into her favorite couch and turned on the television. Her first sip was like the nectar of the gods. It had been a stressful few days and there was a lot to mull over. She lit a Marlboro for good measure. She flipped on the evening news, hoping to find Jack Walker’s mug plastered across the screen. It was big news, but evidently not as big as some turbulence in the Middle East.
“Do you really want to do this, Janie Callahan?” The sound of her own voice gave her some comfort. She needed to believe in a case to be able to pour her heart into it, and she wasn’t sure she did here. Digging deeper into the bowels of a Satanic cult was not to be taken lightly. A shiver ran down her spine. There was something evil going on and Walker was part of it, but just how much? If she bailed on the case, he would eventually be caught and most likely rot in a prison cell. Maybe he belonged there.
On the other hand, she was inclined to believe Walker. More to the point, she was nearly broke and if she dropped the case Peter would fire her. She downed the vodka in one long, delicious sip and stood to pour herself another. She decided to call Peter and ask for more money. If he balked, she would call it quits, but she knew he would pay. Money took care of a lot of things. She wasn’t going to risk her life for chump change.
She pulled one of the new cell phones out of her purse and dialed Pete’s number. “Hello, Pete.”
“Janie, where the hell are you? This case is rolling into something big. I just heard an Indian village was burned. Bodies were found.”
“I was there.”
“What?”
“I swear . . . it was a mess.”
Pete continued, “Two more bodies were found close by on another island, a male and a female, both killed by gunshot.”
“Christ, Pete, is it Walker?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t know about the female, but Walker was on one of the islands with a Seminole man and woman. You say there are only two dead. Either one of them is Walker, or he is on the run again, or captured.”
“Well, I’m sure that if Walker was shot, we’d know by now. It came from a good source with the Collier County Sheriff’s Department. Who would capture Walker?”
“The Satanists.”
“Oh . . . I don’t know what to say about that. The Reserve Police must figure this thing is getting too hot. The natives are allowing the local police to go onto the reserve and they’ll be after Walker, assuming he’s not one of the deceased. How did the interview go?”
“Christ, Pete, he could be dead, and if I’m going any further, I need more money.”
“If he’s fucking dead he’s dead, and we make nothing. We have to assume that he’s alive. You didn’t answer my question.”
“You haven’t given me a damn chance and you didn’t answer mine. You’re always cutting me off. It went as well as it could under the circumstances. I was lucky to get back alive. This storm is brutal. Three hours in a bloody airboat. I’ve got a lot to think about. I need to make notes, formulate a plan of action. But I want more money. I’m putting my life at risk if I go any further.”
Peter hesitated. “I’ll give you 10 percent of the firm’s fees on top of your normal stipend.”
“Fifteen.”
“Not a dime more, Janie. Can I help?”
“Yep, you gotta be there when the rabbit comes to ground. Walker’s going to need representation. There’s only a few ways this thing can go: he’s on his way out of the Everglades, he’s dead, or he’s captured. I’ve got a few good leads on where he might be if he’s not dead.”
“Does that mean you’re accepting my offer?”
“Possibly, maybe.”
“Careful, darlin’.”
“Always. I’ll call you in a bit once I go over my notes.” She hung up and didn’t give him a chance to argue.
She needed to believe that Walker was alive. If he wasn’t, the case was over. If he was captured, The Brotherhood of Set must be responsible. There were too many coincidences to ignore. She had three leads: Buck Henderson, Henrietta LePley, and Jack’s grandfather. Janie decided that the grandfathe
r would be the best bet; she needed information immediately and she knew where to find him.
****
Janie stepped out her front door after taking a short nap and a shower. This time she was better prepared. She wore a long rain coat over her sturdiest clothing. The rain and wind were still strong, but seemed to be dying off during the past hour or so. Over her shoulder, she carried a duffle bag filled with extra clothes and her handgun. She looked over at the unmarked car; there were now two people sitting in the front seat. She calmly walked in the opposite direction. After she turned down a cross street, she looked back to see if the car was following her. Sure enough, it was.
She kept walking until she reached the entrance to a neighboring condominium complex. Once inside she ran as fast as her smoke-damaged lungs allowed until she reached the electronic gate. She had a friend who lived there so she knew the gate entrance code. Her pursuers would be able to get the code easily enough, but it would take a minute or so for them to call dispatch. She ran through the pool area towards the back fence. There was another pedestrian gate that exited onto one of the main roads. Directly across the street was a 7-Eleven where she was a regular customer, mostly buying cigarettes, and a Bank of America. She called a cab as she labored across the street, out of breath, asking to be picked up in the rear parking lot. She entered the bank as calmly as possible.
Keeping an eye on the street, she took some money out of the ATM. After a few minutes, she saw the unmarked car pull up in front of the pedestrian exit to the condo complex. One of the officers got out of the car and began walking across the street toward the 7-Eleven. She was more than happy to see the taxi pulling into the parking lot behind the bank. As the cop went into the convenience store, she slipped out of the bank and got into the cab.
The driver, an older, balding man, turned to look at her over his shoulder. “Where you headed?”
“Go south,” she said, which was the opposite direction the police car was headed. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She slouched down in the seat as she saw the police officer on foot heading into the bank. The driver pulled out onto the street and she was in the clear. “Take 41 to Naples, then towards Miami. We’re going almost halfway across.” The driver looked pleased, as that was a fair distance and would cost at least a one hundred and fifty dollars—plus tip.
She called Peter, who was quick to pick up. “Hey, it’s Janie.”
“Where are you now?”
“On my way to see Walker’s grandfather. Look, there’s a lot to explain in a couple of minutes, so listen carefully.” Janie recounted the facts that she had discovered. Peter listened patiently, making the occasional comment.
“So you think there is a connection to the Satanist Church?”
“Absolutely. Contact the police and let them in on things.”
“Okay, I’ll follow up with James Hunter, Buck Henderson, and Henrietta LePley. Listen, you be careful. I don’t want you getting hurt . . . or in trouble. You’re going to the reserve in case Walker shows up there and to question the grandfather, nothing more. Call me in four hours.”
“Trouble? Come on, Pete, you’re sending me into a Satanic rat hole. Talk to you soon.” She hung up and put the phone back into the duffle bag.
18
Hell
JACK OPENED HIS EYES. His mouth was very dry and his lips were somehow stuck together. To his horror, he realized they were sewn shut; the stitches dug into his flesh like tiny daggers. His hands were trussed close to his feet with a zip tie. His back felt as if it were being bent in two, and his head ached where he’d been struck. It was a small, dark space, and he didn’t like to be confined. Slivers of light sliced from around the outline of the closed door. He tried to wiggle but couldn’t move. He was wedged between something and a wall.
The place was damp and musty, smelling of oil and feces, maybe blood. He pushed against whatever it was that held him against the wall. It was heavy and rolled to the right. It rolled back against him once he stopped pushing. The object moved slightly. He let out a startled scream that was muffled by his sewn lips. The thing beside him was alive. Holy fuck. He tried to push the thing harder, in utter panic. With the last limits of his pain tolerance and strength, he was able to roll the object over. Settling back, he could see that the object was a human body, which was moving slightly. He was lying head to foot with it. The ends of both legs were bloody, footless stumps, sewn up to staunch the flow of blood. Jack calmed himself as best he could and pushed back the sensations of nausea. If he were to vomit, he would choke to death.
He tried to remember what had happened. He could recall being hit from behind. He could see his assailants’ faces. He couldn’t remember getting to where he was now. He’d been knocked cold a few times in his life, mostly playing football. He recalled the doctors’ warnings about further concussions. This last knock was the second such blow in the past few days. He closed his eyes as his head began to swim and he slipped into unconsciousness for a time.
Footsteps coming toward him . . . the door opened. A rough set of hands grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him into the light. It took some time to clear his vision. He was in some kind of garage filled with stuffed animals. Televisions blared from all corners of the room. The man stopped as he reached a clearing in the shop’s floor. He slit the tie that bound Jack’s hands to his feet and Jack sighed a moment’s breath of relief. His back cramped as it was allowed to straighten. The man sat him up against an old sofa, and he was thankful for its support.
“You’re lucky I haven’t let Jimmy feed you to the gators. Way too simple. Hold still now.” The man pulled out a camera and snapped a few photos of him. Jack could see the sun shining through the windows and a large bay door that was open to the outside. He could see that the building backed onto a water course, he could smell swamp. His captor was dressed in a light grey suit and tie. He remembered his face from last night, very pale with a hawk-like nose, tall and lean. Behind him stood another man, shorter, stockier, with a slightly deformed face. “Yes, if I had my way, you would be at the bottom of the swamp, chopped up into a hundred pieces. Jimmy here is itching to cut you up. He’s a remorseless bastard. But even if he weren’t . . . you did kill our brother.” The man brushed his hand through his nearly white hair. “I don’t know why she wants you alive. Never argue with a witch, I always say. It’s bad for one’s health.” He chuckled.
“I hear that you’re a sports hero, Mr. Walker. Well, there will be no heroics from you on this occasion. You see, we have a vested interest in your imminent misery. It’s all very fair. You kill our brother Eric, we make you suffer for as long as we can without letting you drift into the peacefulness of death.”
He turned back to Jimmy. “Throw him back in the cupboard. And I told you to get rid of that whore two days ago. I mean it, you sick bastard.”
Whore? Jack felt his face staring to flush.
Isaac saw the look on Jack’s face. “Ah, so you have seen my little brother’s plaything. You were fucking her for a while, were you not? Maybe I’ll let her live a while longer. Jimmy does appreciate an audience, and as I like to say: he is remorseless.”
Jimmy shuffled over and grabbed Jack by the twist tie that bound his feet. He yanked hard, allowing Jack’s head to bounce off the wooden floor. Pain wracked his already tender, pounding skull. He had never felt so helpless as Jimmy dragged him along the rough floor towards the open doorway. He was at the mercy of his captors. Once in the closet, Jimmy laid him on the floor in the opposite direction and he was able to get a quick look at the form that had been next to him in the dark.
It was female. Her feet and arms had been cut off, the ends sewn and cauterized. She was naked, and her body was soiled from her own defecation and blood. Her lips were sewn shut like his. Sarah. He had hoped the hawk-nosed man had fabricated the tale. Before the door was shut, he wasn’t certain but he thought he saw her eyes open slightly. Then there was darkness, except the slivers of light that peeked through the edges
of the doorway. After a few moments his eyes adjusted and he was able to see the details of her face.
No matter how badly he had been betrayed by the woman, no one deserved this fate. He shuddered to think what had happened to her, and what was still planned for her he could only imagine. If he were to get out of this mess, he would take retribution against those two men. He had a sinking feeling, however, that retribution would never come. The men knew what they were doing and looked as if they’d done this many times before.
He was being kept alive for a purpose. He could only assume it was someone related to the Brotherhood of Set. The Priestess? Henrietta? The latter was most likely. He looked back to Sarah. You poor soul; this is no way to die.
He slowly inched himself forward to the point where his hands were level with Sarah’s throat. He slowly flipped himself over so that his back was facing her. He felt for her throat. Once he had it in his hands, he squeezed with what strength he had left. He felt her struggle slightly, her breath straining through her nostrils for a moment. He pressed harder, pushing himself on top of her as much as he could to gain leverage. He kept the pressure on until he could feel no more movement. He slumped back to the ground with a thump.
He lay motionless for a few minutes catching his breath. Who was Sarah Courtney? Was that even her name? Jack doubted it. If he’d asked himself six hours ago if he cared if she jumped off a bridge, the answer would have been easy. In fact, he might have even pushed her if he’d had the chance. She’d been a conniving, lying bitch and knew what she was doing all along. But it was obvious now that they’d both been pawns, caught up in some warped scenario. Though there was a part of him even now that wanted to leave her in this cruel state, the only humane thing to do was to put her out of her misery. Deception or no deception, she had been a proud person. You get to know someone after four months. He was sure that she would thank him when they met up in hell. Or were they already there?
Devil in the Grass Page 18