The Demon Pool (30 page)

Pedro sipped hot coffee and wished that the pretty girl
named Saffi had some whiskey. Pedro’s feelings of spiritual awakening that had
come to him and sheltered him during the drive to Ft. Myers had dissolved into
an ambiguous funk, much like the feelings he had when his squad would return
from a patrol in Vietnam. Always glad to get back to the base alive, but
frequently depressed at having lost someone, either dead or wounded. In ‘nam
they called it survivor’s guilt.

A large, family Bible lay open on the coffee table
in front of the sofa where Trooper Demore and Saffi sat. Pedro could not see
which book or chapter it was open to. It did not matter. The Bible represented
something good in a night where many things were bad.

“Señior de la Garza,” Jim Demore started, “give
me as much detail as you can on what happened tonight.”

Jim took the pen and his small notebook out of
his shirt pocket.

Pedro lowered his coffee cup. He did not
understand everything that had happened, but his experience convinced him that
something dark and malicious drove tonight’s events. He believed that tonight’s
experience was an extension of some unknown, spiritual evil that had landed on
his family through his great-grandfather, and he reasoned that the only way to
be free from its century-old grip would be direct confrontation. Anything less
would leave him endlessly wallowing in a spiritual and emotional gutter.

Pedro would start at the beginning, the very
beginning, with the story of his great-grandfather. Trooper Demore wanted
details. Pedro would give him details.

***

Saffi listened to Pedro’s story with both her ears and
her spirit. It was fascinating, touching on incredible. She saw truth in
Pedro’s eyes. She had been raised a Southern Baptist and, unlike the
Pentecostals and Charismatics, her church did not deal much in signs and wonders
— those immaterial, some would say occult — aspects of Christianity. It left
her with little direct experience with the metaphysical elements of the
supernatural. After all, if you never opened that door, you never had to worry
about what might jump through it.

She looked at Jim, his face painted with a liberal
coat of skepticism. Nevertheless, Saffi could tell that Jim had been as
captivated by Pedro’s story as she had been.

“Most people do believe that a spiritual world
exists,” Saffi said.

“Saffi, we’re scientists.” Jim replied. “At
least, scientists-in-training.”

“Regardless,” she continued, “as scientists and
CSIs, we follow the evidence, no matter where it leads. We follow the evidence,
even if that means accepting that maybe there are some things that exist in
this world that we have yet to experience and cannot explain.”

“Well, if you are talking about demons and
wizards and things that go bump in the night, I think I will continue the role
of investigative skeptic.”

“Señior Demore,” Pedro cut in, “the face of the
Government Man’s companion was evil. I could see it. But, more than that, the
evil followed me. I felt it pressing into my truck. I felt it again, outside,
before you opened the door.”

Pedro held his coffee cup in one hand and crossed
himself with the other, something he had not done for many years. Tonight it
was becoming a habit.

“Look, simply because someone feels something,
doesn’t mean there is some supernatural force involved,” Jim said with a hint
of irritation. “A feeling,” he continued, “is not a fact, no matter how strong
or real it might seem.”

Saffi smiled, but it was not the carefree smile
of an innocent girl. It was a smile of knowing. A smile that said, “I’m being
patient with you.”

“Jim, evil is a fact. You know that,” Saffi said
softly. “Otherwise, how do you explain Hitler and Stalin and Saddam Hussein?
Or, for that matter, Columbine or Oklahoma City or 9/11? We deal with the
results of evil every day in our jobs. The real question is where does evil
come from? The heart of man, or the heart of darkness. Or both?”

Pedro nodded in agreement. “I once thought it was
only from the heart of men,” Pedro said, “but now I know that it also exists
outside of men’s bodies and men’s minds. It is a force in the world, in its own
right. Even if we can’t see it.”

Pedro sipped his coffee. When he spoke again, his
voice was almost a whisper.

“Tonight it came for me. Madre de Dios, protect
us.”

***

Jim was silent. He was tired, bone-weary, and he did
not want to think about demons, goblins, or evil spirits. He wanted to get back
to solving good, old-fashioned car crash cases. Yet, what if something
supernatural did overlay this case? Some occult evil right out of
The
Exorcist
or
The Omen
? How do you fight something that you cannot see
or touch? Pedro said he felt the evil, but feelings do not solve cases, facts
do. On the other hand, how would he explain his own cop-sense, if he had to? Of
course, some would simply chalk it up to cop paranoia. A feeling.

“Okay, for argument’s sake,” Jim began, “let’s say
there is some kind of demonic power or witchcraft. Whatever you want to call
it. Some supernatural crap involved here. Does it matter? I can arrest a suspect.
I can’t arrest a ghost.”

“It could matter,” Saffi jumped in, “and we are
not talking about ghosts. Ghosts are fiction. Demons are real, and not only do
I not believe in ghosts, I don’t believe in witchcraft either. At least not the
Bewitched
or
I Dream of Jeannie
type.”

Jim almost laughed aloud.

“So, we could be fighting something that you
don’t even believe in?” Jim replied. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you understand the Bible’s version of
witchcraft and the supernatural,” Saffi shot back.

“God and the devil? Sunday school stories.” Jim
said.

“More than God and the devil. God, the devil, and
the whole spiritual cosmos,” Saffi told him.

Jim knew the basics of what many Christians
believed. He knew that God had his guys and the devil had his, and they were
all pretty much invisible, so nobody could prove anything. He knew the Bible
said God occasionally showed up as a burning bush, or as a voice from the sky,
and that Jesus and his disciples were supposed to have been able to cast demons
out of people. At least, those were the kinds of things that his hard-core
Pentecostal preacher uncle had told him growing up. Jim never thought of his
uncle as a liar. Just a guy who took his religion a little too seriously after
almost getting his butt shot off in Vietnam.

“If I’m wrong,” Saffi told him, “then all you
have to do is go out and arrest the bad guys.”

When Jim’s cell phone rang, they all jumped. If
it were not that Carl Johns’ life was in danger, it would have been funny, but
nobody laughed. Jim looked at the caller ID screen before he answered. It
showed a text message with a video attachment
.
The message simply said,
“Watch this.”

Jim held the phone where they could all see it
and stabbed the play button with his finger. A girl, naked and still, appeared
on the screen. The camera panned slowly from her feet to her unblinking eyes.

“Madre de Dios” Pedro uttered. He crossed
himself.

“Do you think Carl’s already dead?” Saffi asked
softly.

John shook his head, “No”.

“Not Carl. But that girl. They killed her.
Message is from the same phone as Carl’s video. They want me to know they’re
serious.”

Jim closed the video. He stayed quiet for a minute.
What if, for argument’s sake, Uncle Jack had been right? What if the Bible’s
version of good versus evil were true? God and his angels stand on one side,
the devil and his demons on the other, and the rest of us are stuck in the
middle? The classic, fundamentalist view of good and evil. Well, from the looks
of things, it didn’t appear that good was winning.

Jim’s phone rang again. The caller ID said Kat Connors.
He answered.

“What a coincidence, Ms. Connors. I was just
thinking about your boyfriend. And you driving his pretty car. And where that
car is now. You have to ask yourself, what kind of people are you tangled up
with? Looks to me like things have gone from manslaughter to felony murder.”

“There are no coincidences, Trooper Demore.” Kat’s
tone was smooth and sure. “There are only the paths we choose and the paths
that are chosen for us. A little voice told me that someone else has your case
now. A smart man would realize that he had been given a new path.” Kat paused. “You’re
not alone, are you?” she asked, but it was more a statement of fact.

Jim wanted to ask her how she knew, but he was
not sure he wanted to hear her answer.

“I’m alone,” he lied.

“It’s not good to lie to me, Jim. There are three
of you there,” she said.

Was she having him watched? Jim stood and looked
out the door’s peephole again.

Kat continued, “And you are the group skeptic.
But, that’s okay.” She sounded as if she was reassuring him. “Some truths we
have to learn for ourselves. You do care about truth, don’t you?” she mocked.

Jim felt a strong urge to reach through the
phone, grab her by the throat, and squeeze until her eyes rolled up into her
head. The way Marine drill instructors used to do to wayward recruits. Old
school. Of course, in today’s politically correct, estrogen-washed military,
that would be the end of a DI’s career. Jim had an appreciation for old school.
Old school worked, even if it was not pretty. However, political correctness
had inflated its price. Few people could afford old school today.

“I care about taking criminals and their asshole
associates off the street,” Jim replied, surprised at his own use of vulgarity.
He was tired of all the crap. If his sentiment registered with Kat, her voice
did not reveal it.

“It must feel so good to care, Jim.” Kat said.
She continued, “Do you care about your friend? I understand he’s not doing
well.”

Jim’s mind replayed the video of someone zapping
Carl Johns with a Taser.

“What the hell kind of people are you?” Jim
asked, almost shouting

Pedro mouthed the words
malo, muy malo
and
crossed himself again. Unmistakable resolve and coldness crept into Jim’s
voice.

“You know, Ms. Connors, Florida executes its
premeditated murderers.”

“Yes it does, when it can bring them to trial and
convict them,” Kat replied.
“
I can help you, Jim, if you let me.”

Jim snorted.

“I’m not the one looking at a needle in the arm,
Ms. Connors. You need to help yourself.”

Kat laughed.

“My whole life has been about helping myself. I’m
good at it. They
will
kill him. If you want to help him, you need my
help. You need to meet with me.”

Jim wanted to throw the phone against the wall.
Despite the insanity, the blatant stupidity of what York and his companion had
done, Jim did believe her. He had Carl’s life in his hands. How he handled this
would determine Carl’s fate. Jim kept his answer simple.

“Where?”

“Ask your little brown friend. The Spanish guy.
He knows. And Jim,” Kat continued, “Come alone. Bring anybody else, call
anybody else, and the cop dies.”

Jim heard assured finality in Kat’s voice.

“Your friend’s life is in your hands,” she said. “You
get to be God.”

Jim did not want to be God, or Allah, or Buddha,
or anyone else. He wanted to be a good cop, and these bastards were doing their
best to take that from him. They damn well might be able to kill him, he was
willing to face that possibility, but he was not willing to stop being a good
cop. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. He could at least keep Saffi and Pedro
out of the crap soup he had fallen into.

“When?” he asked.

“Tomorrow night. At midnight. Not a second past.”

“I’ll be there,” Jim replied. It was Jim’s turn
to pause for effect. “And if Carl isn’t alive, you and your friends won’t be
either.”

“Poor Jim,” Kat replied. “You want to be in
control, but you’re not. Be there, or your friend dies.”

The phone went dead. Jim stared at it for a moment,
closed it, and put it away.

“What are we going to do?” Saffi asked.

“We are going to get some rest,” Jim told her. “Tomorrow
I have some things to do.”

“Señior Demore?” Pedro asked.

Jim leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment,
not ignoring Pedro, just taking a moment to gather his thoughts, tamp down his
personal feelings.

“Señior Demore?” Pedro asked again.

Jim opened his eyes.

“Let us help you,” Pedro said.

His voice carried no heroics. Simply the sincere
petition of a friend. All Jim could tell him was an equally simple truth.

“I can’t. It’s not my choice. I don’t know
exactly what’s behind all this, some occult force or just bad people, but she
was clear. Come alone or Carl dies.” Jim looked at Pedro. “Thank you, but I can’t
take chances with Carl’s life, or yours.”

“But you’ll take chances with your life?” Saffi
said. Fire built in her eyes.

“If I don’t go alone, Carl is a dead man,” Jim
said. “Do you want that on your hands?”

He looked at Pedro, but Pedro said nothing. He
looked back at Saffi. He saw her anger, almost to tears.

“No,” she answered, her frustration reflected in
her voice. “I don’t want anyone’s death on my hands, but you need back up. What
makes you think they won’t immediately kill you? What good is it if you’re dead?”

“No good at all,” he said. “But, that doesn’t
matter now. Look, I have a little over twenty-four hours until I have to meet
them.” Calm had returned to his voice. “Let’s get some rest and I’ll see what I
can come up with tomorrow. Okay?”

Pedro nodded his head as he spoke. “Si, Señior
Demore. Mañana. Mañana es bueno, but the evil is still out there.”

“I don’t have a spare bedroom,” Saffi told them, “but
the sofa is comfortable.” She pointed at Pedro’s chair, “and your chair folds
down into a small futon sleeper. Sometimes, a couple of the girls in my study
group sleepover. They’ve never complained.”

Pedro looked relieved.

“So, you make all the guys go home?” Jim asked.

She looked serious as she stood.

“Oh, yes, I do. But not tonight. I’ll get you
guys some pillows and blankets.”

Jim watched her disappear down the short hall and
into what he assumed was her bedroom. Jim suddenly realized that he wanted to
know what Saffi’s bedroom looked like. Not for the usual testosterone-on-patrol
reasons. The first time he had seen Linda’s bedroom he had been impressed.
Ultra-contemporary, full of high-end art deco. It
was
Linda.

It would be interesting to know what Saffi’s
bedroom said about her. Maybe instead of art deco, it was full of mementos from
some junior CSI, summer bug camp. Jim wondered what it would be like to be in a
relationship with someone who was not only pretty, but actually smarter than he
was. He wondered if he would live to have a chance to find out.