Jack dug down deep into his inner resolve. It would be quite easy to give up; death awaited him in short order. But he was not ready to die.
19
Swapping Stories
PETER WALKED OUT THE front door of his office building. He pondered calling the authorities, but figured it would be much easier to flag down the men in the black sedan sitting in front of his office. Janie was right. It was time to feed some information to the good guys. He assumed that they knew a lot more than he, but the case was in damage control at this point and he would give them what information was required to help promote the safety of his client.
Within half an hour, officers Ramirez and Green were sitting across from him at his desk. Ramirez pulled his hand through his thick black hair. He moved from side to side in his chair, unable to find a comfortable position.
“Mr. Robertson, you realize that withholding evidence from an ongoing investigation is illegal?”
Peter stared out the window for a moment. “Don’t patronize me, Officer Ramirez. So is revealing a client’s confidential disclosure.” He turned to stare at the man. “Look, I called you in to offer some help. I fear my client is in grave danger.” He paused for a moment, turning again to look out the window at the rain pelting down against the glass. “I believe that Jackson Walker is innocent and I am trying to piece together his story. Frankly, there are too many holes at this point. This whole thing could be bigger than my client and his involvement. I was hoping that together we might be able to trade information and get to the bottom of it all. I know you want your arrest, but wouldn’t you like to crack open something really big?”
Lani nodded.
“We made contact with Walker two days ago. He was staying on an island. One of my assistants interviewed him.”
Lani moved forward in her chair, her brows furrowing. “We’re listening, Mr. Robertson. Do you mind if we record this conversation?”
“No, not at all. My sources indicate that there have been attacks on a number of Seminole villages within the watershed, including the island where Walker was located. We believe he is on the run. He was on the island where a Seminole woman and a younger man were killed, both by gunshot wounds. Can we agree that this is accurate?”
Lani turned her head to the side, not committing.
“It is no secret that a local Satanic cult may be involved. I am going to give you two names: Buck Henderson and Henrietta LePley. My client believes that he is being framed. We believe him, though we do not have enough evidence to put together a slam-dunk case. Both of the individuals whose names I have given you are associated with the Brotherhood of Set. We haven’t had enough time to locate these individuals.” He paused, rubbing his hands slightly.
“I believe you have the resources. Our biggest fear is that he has been abducted. His body was not found on the island. Since he hasn’t shown up dead or arrested, and he isn’t with his family anymore, I can only assume that he may be in bad hands. We need to get him in before anything terrible happens to him.”
Lani looked at Rick, then turned back to Pete and lied. “Is that it? You haven’t told us anything that we didn’t already know.”
“Don’t be coy, Agent Green. We can work together. I will tell you if I hear anything new, if you would be so kind to give me your number.”
Rick pulled a business card out of his wallet. “I appreciate your position, sir. You’re in over your head. I think you know this or you wouldn’t have called.”
Peter let out a long breath. “Ramirez, it’s all about making deals. Jackson Walker is my trump card. Who’s got the second ace? You or me? You wouldn’t be here if it was you.”
Lani smiled. “You let us know if anything else comes up. I will promise you one courtesy—if Walker shows up, you’ll be one of the first to know. For your sake and his, Mr. Robertson, I hope that your assumptions are correct. It won’t be the first time that a suspect claimed he was innocent.”
20
Henrietta LePley
HENRIETTA SAT ACROSS THE massive oak desk from her father. She had stacked papers on it neatly into symmetrically perfect piles. Her hair was styled in the tight bob that was fashionable for the 1920s, and she wore a white dress, long and starched with a short black jacket covering her shoulders. It was her choice to dress as she did, just like it was her choice to accompany her father in his daily activities. She’d gone to work with him every day since her tenth birthday. It could be no other way.
Henrietta watched as an older man dressed in a pinstripe suit viewed a set of documents her father had placed in front of him. Roger Edgar, her father’s real estate broker, had made the long drive down from Tampa to Charlotte Harbor for the meeting. Her father looked at Roger over the top of his glasses, as was his way.
“Looks good in principle, Mr. Edgar,” he said in a deep southern Floridian drawl. “It will allow us to link up those other parcels we bought two years back. We made a pretty good deal on the other two. What is the resistance? Do these people think they have us over a barrel?”
“Maybe they do, Mr. LePley. They know that you need the land.” Edgar crossed his arms over his paunch of a belly.
George LePley dropped the papers to his desk briskly, disturbing one of the perfectly placed stacks of paper. “Nonsense. I may be the only man who has any interest in that land, but we can let them stew on the deal for another year for all I care, make it two years.” He hesitated, meeting Henrietta’s eyes for the slightest of moments. “Unless you know more about this deal than you are telling. You wouldn’t have an interest with the other party, now would you, Mr. Edgar?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Henrietta turned her eyes off to the side, as if looking at someone and nodded. Henrietta’s father had found it unnerving when the girl did this, but after a time learned not to question the peculiarity.
“Mr. Edgar,” Henrietta stated in her sweetest voice, “the Booths have been wanting rid of this property for some time now.” She stood, glancing to the side once again. “It is common knowledge that they want in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars. Now you bring them an offer of twenty-four. My father is paying you handsomely with a two-thousand-dollar commission. You wouldn’t be looking to double your fee, would you, Mr. Edgar?”
A bead of sweat formed on the man’s brow. “Yes, of course I am being paid well. I always am, Miss Henrietta.”
George stood slowly, having made a slight change to the document. “Take this back to the Booths. I will not pay a dime over twenty grand. Don’t come back without the papers being signed. If you do, I’ll be looking for another broker and you will be out your commission. Good day to you, sir.” He handed the papers back to the man.
Roger Edgar extended his hand. “Of course, sir. I’ll do my best to get the papers signed.” He quickly shuffled out of the office, happy to escape the LePley scrutiny.
“You were correct as usual, my darling girl.”
Henrietta’s face beamed with pleasure at the praise.
“Now be a good girl and go get yourself a soda.” He tossed her a couple of coins. “Allow me the privacy of a cigar.”
Henrietta nodded. She knew that her father needed to be left alone from time to time and there were no more meetings slated for the day. She left the building and made her way down to the wharf, where the fishing boats were bringing in their daily catch. The place smelled of fish, salt air, and sweat. The docks and surrounding streets were crowded with laborers, loading and unloading cargo ships. Old whipping posts remained as a stark reminder of times when these men were not paid for their work. She was fascinated with the place.
Henrietta moved along to the stretch of jetties, observing every detail. She sat down on a piling and watched as a large black man oared his skiff into its crude dock. He tossed a thick rope to the young girl with a broad and welcoming smile. He spoke with a thick Spanish accent. “This is no place for a little woman.”
“You will tire one day of saying the same thing, Mr. Corte
z. What did you catch today?” She stepped down into the boat. Fish covered the deck with a large net strewn across them. “Snook, redfish, mullet and what is that beast?” She pointed to a large shark strewn across the bow of the boat.
“Blacktip shark. Miss Henrietta. You gonna get that pretty white dress dirty, and your papa will have me skinned.”
“I doubt that, Mr. Cortez. Maybe just tied and whipped.” She glanced at one of the posts on the shoreline.
The man’s broad smile disappeared. She had inadvertently crossed a line that he did not like. “Get you home now, Miss.”
“Aw, I’m sorry Mr. Cortez. I really didn’t mean it.” She glanced back at the large shark. “How’d you catch that thing?”
“Free line.” He picked up a long coiled cord. “Mano a mano.” He flexed his massive biceps. “Today I am the fish’s master. Tomorrow . . . maybe not.” He laughed, his broad smile returning to his wide face. “Take some fish home to your mother.” He put two large snook into a burlap sack.
“Thank you, Mr. Cortez. I will see you tomorrow?”
The man smiled and lifted her up to the dock. “It is not wise to say such things, little woman. One day you will say it to someone who is not as nice as me.”
She smiled. “I will remember that, Mr. Cortez.” She turned and headed towards home.
Henrietta turned sharply to the right, stumbling for no apparent reason, she gathered herself and nodded, whispering. “Yes, the dark people are proud.”
Henrietta walked slowly for a few minutes back toward the town center and to her father’s office building. Henrietta decided to leave him alone for the rest of the day. She didn’t think he would appreciate the smell of fish in his office. Her father’s driver took her home in one of the company’s Model T Fords.
Her mother, Cecilia LePley, welcomed her in the kitchen of their large ranch style home in North Ft. Myers, happily accepting the fresh fish. She was a robust, pleasant woman with large hips and breasts.
“Would you like some tea?” her mother asked.
“Yes please.” Henrietta’s relationship with her mother was strong. There wasn’t a lot of talk between the two, but there was a bond, more powerful than blood. The two bore a common talent—they were spirit whisperers. Her mother, like her French ancestors. liked to call it voodoo or witchcraft. Cecilia LePley was not as powerful with the spirits as her little girl, but made great use of the gift by making her everyday life, and that of her families . . . easier. Henrietta, on the other hand, saw the gift as a source of power, which needed to be exploited. A whisperer could see spirits. A witch’s strength lay in the clarity in which they could see the apparitions and their ability to interpret the intent or message put forward from the being. A whisperer with little power often fell to insanity, as they did not have a strong enough will to filter or block the lesser and sometimes stronger entities from their normal daily lives. The stronger witches, like Henrietta, even at a young age, could interpret and at times bend the will of a stronger entity.
George LePley was different from her mother. Henrietta had watched her father conduct his business with the utmost scrutiny. There were those who questioned why George allowed his daughter to follow him during his daily work routine, but most wrote it off as an idiosyncratic Southern custom that the LePleys had not discarded at the turn of the century. If you wanted to do business with millionaire George LePley, you accepted the presence of his daughter.
Henrietta would watch the men that George met during his meetings. She unnerved some of them, but long-time associates grew accustomed to her. She had the knack of stepping in with a quiet comment just at the right moment, as if she knew what they were thinking. Henrietta would take her father aside and offer her understanding of the matter. In time, George understood that she was always correct in her assessments. Ultimately, he accepted her as part of himself.
****
George LePley was wealthy. His ancestry was long and well-ensconced within the hierarchy of wealthy Southern families. His father had been a captain under General Lee in the Civil War. His ancestors had fought the Indians in the Seminole wars. Though he could not prove it, Henrietta’s father claimed roots back to the 1500s, when Ponce de Leon had used the west coast of Florida as an outpost for pirating. It was an old family story that a LePley had buried treasure on Estero Island, later called Ft. Myers Beach. Henrietta knew the myth to be reality, though the knowledge of its specific location had been lost in the telling.
As far back as their ancestry went, so did the link to the Church of Set. The LePleys had been blessed with strong occult awareness. They learned to use their power and their links to the venerable church of Satan to forward their aspirations. The LePleys were one of the original benefactors of the grand old Republican Party. The family’s wealth expanded slowly through generation upon generation of prudent investing and management of the estate. The LePleys had a keen eye for profitable advantages. George believed that there would be money in sulfur, of which there was an abundance in the area. Henrietta agreed. He was working on a project to bring a rail line in from Miami and the Port of Tampa. Port Charlotte and its deep harbor would be the perfect location to export to the rest of the world. He and his business partners bought hundreds of acres on the coast, as well as on Gasparilla Island. The venture would bring prosperity to southwest Florida in the early- to mid-1900s.
****
Henrietta sat at the same table as she had all those years ago, where her mother had served her tea. The decor had changed; the house had all the modern amenities one could want, except televisions. Henrietta didn’t like noise and distractions; it disrupted her ability to connect with the spirit world. Heavy machinery and people talking had the same effect.
Henrietta had never taken a man. She had decided in her twenties that they were not to her taste. For a time she dated men in hopes of becoming pregnant, but by her thirtieth year, a strong and impetuous entity had declared her infertile. “So mote it be,” she stated. Henrietta did not bat an eye.
Henrietta settled in to running her estates, and over the next several decades created an even bigger financial empire. She aged abnormally slowly. Her fingers were into everything from oil, sulfur, sugar cane, and turpentine to gambling, and that is where she found herself today. It was a major disappointment that a Republican senator would have the gall to suggest that her rights be subdued in her home state. She had overcome a lot in her hundred-plus years and would not see her legacy compromised. Republicans were supposed to behave responsibly, not like the damned Democrats who could not think four years ahead to the next election.
She feared the Chinese, who could plan and look ahead more than any respectable Republican. If Americans were not careful, China would own the country within fifty years.
****
Henrietta looked forward to the evening ahead. She had invited the good senator to dinner, where she would introduce him to some of her fold. The Walker situation was under control and she would now need Senator Hunter to change his mind. Mason Matye, president of the American Branch of the Church of Satan, a good friend of hers and a powerful witch of his own accord, would be there tonight. Some extra muscle might be required.
Henrietta had arranged to be picked up at six by Isaac McFadden. The tall, blond man opened the rear door to the limousine and took the old matriarch’s hand to ease her into the back seat.
“Good evening, Isaac,” she said as he released her hand.
“Ms. LePley, it’s always a pleasure. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the privilege of driving for you. Eric would have had the privilege, but as you know, he’s dead.”
“Forget the pleasantries, Isaac, this isn’t the time. Get into the driver’s seat so we can talk.”
Isaac raised his eyebrows as he turned away and smoothly slipped into the car, closing the door behind him. Eric had been her normal driver, and he was not used to being so close to the woman and so subservient. He blamed her more than Walker for Eric’s untimely
end, but decided it was best to placate her until he could find a sensible retribution for the incident. He left the privacy partition open and pulled out of the driveway.
“The Walker boy, is he still alive?”
Isaac paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. The old woman had a penchant for knowing whether or not you were being truthful. She was the only person he’d ever met who could unnerve him with a few subtle words. “Yes, but uncomfortably so.”
She sat for a few minutes, fussing with her lipstick and hair. “If he is to serve his purpose, he must remain . . . so.” She smiled, showing her teeth, her eyes meeting his in the rear view mirror. He couldn’t hold her stare. “If we were to need him tonight, could he be prettied up?”
“Yes ma’am.” He supposed that Walker could be made to look passable. “No worse for the wear.”
“Good. Once you have dropped me off, I would like you to make sure he is presentable. I may call upon you to . . . present him. We may need to let the senator know that we have detained him.”
“‘Present’ him? We don’t entertain many visitors out here, ma’am.”
“Don’t be coy, Isaac, surely your degree from Cornell provided you with the brains to figure out this complicated request. Have him presentable for me when I call.”
“As you ask, ma’am, just give me some lead time if you can.” Bitch.
Henrietta didn’t say another word until they reached Remington’s. She looked Isaac in the eye as he helped her out of the car. “This is important Mr. McFadden.”
He nodded as he let her hand go.
****
Tables and chairs had been cleared out of the large, well-appointed dining room except for one long table with place settings for twenty. The sun was low, sitting in the middle of the large windows that filled the western wall of the room. The light reflected off a massive chandelier that hung from the center of the room’s vaulted ceiling. Several of the dinner guests, in black tie and formal gown, milled around the service bar next to the room’s entrance. Henrietta had hoped that she would arrive after the senator, but the politician was late. One and all turned to acknowledge her as she entered.
Devil in the Grass Page 19