The Demon Pool (38 page)

Jim watched the knife slice through Carl’s neck. Carl’s
eyes bugged out with terror. Jim saw the cords of Carl’s neck muscles tense as
Carl tried to use his strength to stop the blade. A wasted effort.

Jim twisted his body around and tried to aim the
pistol he held behind his back in his handcuffed hands. An awkward move, but
the only chance Carl had. If he was a fraction of an inch off, he might hit
Carl, doing even more damage to his wounded friend. But he had no other choice.
He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He pulled the trigger and watched Kat spin
around from the bullet’s impact.

Jim kept firing, trying to adjust for the recoil
and the awkward position. He fired three shots before he felt his knee start to
give and had to shift his weight to his other leg, turning toward the stairs.
Kevin stood next to Bruce’s body, holding the other pistol.

Jim jumped out of Kevin’s line of fire, feeling a
bullet graze his left ankle. Jim hit the floor and rolled toward where Carl
sat, Carl’s dark brown face now an unnatural white from the rapid loss of
blood. Jim stopped rolling, landing slightly to Carl’s left. To his surprise,
he felt the gun still in his hand.

He leaned forward, pointing the pistol toward
Kevin. He fired in rapid sequence, three more shots, aiming by instinct. Kevin,
using a wall for support, returned fire. Jim rolled toward Carl, Kevin’s
bullets kicking up splinters of wood from the floor. Jim stopped moving and sat
still. Kevin aimed his pistol straight at Jim. Jim fired first.

In the split second it took Kevin to steady his
aim and pull the trigger, a 180-grain, jacketed, hollow-point round burst
through Kevin’s chest, slamming him against the wall.

The bullet’s impact made Kevin jerk the trigger
of Carl’s gun, and the shot went wild, missing Jim and Carl. Less than a second
after the tip of the bullet pierced Kevin’s skin, he died, but his body stayed
erect.

Jim watched what he later described as a dead man
dancing. Black shadows exploded out of Kevin. Some flew up and away,
disappearing into the dark void of the ceiling above. Others spun around,
creating a black vortex around Kevin’s lifeless body that somehow kept his
corpse on its feet. A few weaved in and out of Kevin as if they were dazed and
confused. The whole scene reminded Jim of some bizarre, demonic Cirque du
Soleil. A show that Jim would have been none too happy to have missed.

***

For some humans, the line between pain and pleasure
could be very thin. For Baalzaric, it was practically non-existent. Pain meant
physical life, as did pleasure.  Therefore, the wound to Kat’s shoulder
became merely another manifestation of the overwhelming demonic desire for
feeling. As long as it were not life-threatening, Baalzaric would glory in the
burning and aching brought by the deep furrow now carved across the top of
Kat’s left shoulder.

Baalzaric had watched through Kat’s eyes as Kevin
slowly and quietly came down the stairs. He was holding the other gun, but he
looked bad.
The walking dead.

The power of the indwelling demons had
resurrected the nearly deceased Kevin. Kevin’s eyes had the glazed look of an
eventually fatal, concussive injury. Baalzaric hoped the demons inhabiting
Kevin could work together long enough to take out Demore, but Kevin’s
impact-damaged brain interfered with the necessary connections. Timing and aim
were off just enough to allow Demore to escape. Instead, Demore shot Kevin, and
Kevin’s demons found themselves disembodied.
Sad for them
.

Kevin, dead. Bruce, dead.
No great loss there.

Kat, fortunately, had suffered only a minor
injury, and Demore would be busy trying to get help for his dying friend.
Robert was still at AGT and would still be useful, but the problem of Demore
remained. Handcuffed and probably out of bullets, with his friend near death,
they had, for the moment, neutralized him.

Kat stood in the dark kitchen, holding another
knife, as the wind whipped in through the back door. Baalzaric saw a female
form lying in a heap on the floor. Although her position concealed her face,
Baalzaric knew it was Demore’s friend. She had made it to the estate and into
the kitchen.

Centuries of cunning and human knowledge whirled
through his mind. He guided Kat toward the door, taking direct control for the
first time. She hesitated, but Baalzaric overrode her reluctance, suborning her
will to his.

Under his guidance, Kat bent down, grabbed a
handful of hair, and pulled the head up in order to see the face. A bloody
gouge creased the woman’s skull above her forehead. An apparent bullet wound.

Kat put her ear close to the woman’s mouth and
nose. She heard her soft breathing, felt her warm breath. Baalzaric’s demon servants
had failed to stop her. He would deal with them later. Somehow, the woman had
made it to the estate and had walked right into their hands.

Baalzaric was not entirely surprised at her
unexpected presence. Over the centuries, Baalzaric had come to realize that
sometimes luck was a much better ally than cunning or intelligence. If
Machiavelli were right and Fortune only ruled one-half of men’s fate, then
tonight, Baalzaric would be the force that ruled the other half.

The dead man’s dance ended, and Kevin’s corpse, still
wearing Carl’s oversized utility belt, collapsed at the foot of the stairs. Jim
retrieved Carl’s handcuff keys and managed to unlock the cuffs. With his hands
now free, he put a fresh magazine into the forty-caliber automatic and then
checked Carl.

Carl was out, but the bleeding had slowed and he
still had a faint pulse. Although the knife went all the way through Carl’s
neck, it looked as if Kat had thrust the blade in too quickly, carelessly. Carelessly
to Carl’s advantage. While Carl had lost a lot of blood, the position of the
handle indicated that the blade sliced through muscle, and missing his main
arteries and spinal cord. It left Carl badly injured, but still alive. Barely.

Jim reached for the phone on his own utility
belt, but it was gone, along with his second magazine. One of Kevin’s bullets
had torn through both cases, ripping the phone and the magazine loose.

Jim checked Bruce and Kevin. He found their
phones, but they were both damaged and neither would work. Jim checked Carl’s
utility belt and found Carl’s phone still in its case with no obvious damage.
Jim pressed the power button. The phone came alive, went through its startup
routine, and shut down again, the batteries too weak to keep the phone working.
Jim didn’t want to risk moving Carl, but needed to get help fast.
The Viper.
Faster than a Porsche.

With the Viper, it would only take a few minutes
to get to a phone and call for help.
And I have the key
.

He had been less worried about Kat escaping than
he was about Carl surviving. He went back to Carl, but decided not to untie
him. He didn’t want to take the risk of moving Carl and the knife, potentially
nicking an artery, or slicing through a nerve bundle. Jim knelt and leaned in
close to Carl.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Jim said softly.

Carl’s eyes fluttered. If Jim had been standing a
few feet away, he may not have noticed.

“Jim?” Carl whispered between gasps.

Jim waited, realizing that Carl could talk, or he
could breath. Almost impossible to do both.

“The little guy. The freak. Watch out. He has my
gun,” Carl croaked.

He gave Carl a quick pat.

“
Had
your gun. Don’t worry,” Jim reassured
him, “He’s down. Permanently.”

Jim stood, listening for a moment. All he could
hear was the sound of hurricane-force winds beating the sides and roof of the
house. He leaned back toward Carl.

“Stay strong. I’ll be back.”

Carl’s head sagged and Jim quick-checked Carl’s
pulse again.
Weak, but still there, thank God.

He knew Carl had little time left. Jim turned and
headed for the back of the house.

***

Kat knew that she had to get the woman bound and
gagged. The gag was especially important. The spirit guide, or voice, or whatever
it was inside her head, had warned her that another spirit indwelt this woman.
However, it was a different spirit. A spirit so powerful that if the woman were
allowed to speak in the name of the Nazarene, none of Kat’s spiritual allies
would be able to resist the woman’s commands. Kat would be powerless, and
everything she had accomplished and dreamed about would be undone. She would be
an old, old woman by the time they let her out of prison. Assuming they would
ever let her out.

Kat found an old towel and tore it into strips.
She tied the woman’s hands behind her back. She took another piece of towel,
rolled it into a small ball, and forced it into the woman’s mouth. She used the
remaining strip to tie the gag in place.

Kat grimaced as she lifted the woman to her feet.
The woman was groggy and unsteady, but managed to stand. Kat stood behind her,
holding Saffi by her bound wrists. Kat’s other hand held another kitchen knife.
Kat pulled the kitchen door shut before dragging the woman off into the corner,
but the sound of the wind from the approaching storm still forced its way into
the house, violating the estate with the same relentless pounding that she had
known with Robert Greer.

Kat would have to convince Demore that she would
spare this woman as long as Demore cooperated. Of course, cooperating meant
either giving up his soul or his life, or even both. Once Demore willingly
agreed to provide his own body and soul as a sacrifice, the demons would pour
into him, making
him
the instrument of his friend’s destruction.

***

Jim hated leaving Carl alone, but he needed to get to
the Viper. He believed that eventually some law enforcement authority would
pick Kat up. But if Carl died, that was it. He would be gone. Forever. Death
rarely gave second chances.

One question disturbed him — did Kat have a set of
keys to one of the other cars?
Most likely. And if not to the Viper, then
probably the import’s.

He thought he might run into her somewhere
outside. Instead, he found her in the kitchen. She was not alone.

Jim had not expected to see Saffi. He certainly
did not expect to see Kat in the kitchen holding Saffi captive, using her as a
hostage and shield. Saffi’s face was puffy and a gag covered her mouth. Dried
blood had crusted along her hairline. Her clothing was disheveled and dirty.
Pieces of foliage were stuck in her hair and clung to her bare arms and
clothing. Worse, her eyes looked almost vacant, with a little-girl-lost
expression. A damaged, empty-looking vessel had replaced the pretty girl who had
promised to pray for him.

Jim aimed his pistol. But with Saffi being used as
a shield, he didn’t have a clear shot. He had no doubt that Kat would kill
Saffi. At this point, he could only offer a trade: Kat’s freedom for Saffi’s and
the chance to save Carl’s’ life.

“Your choices are limited, Trooper Demore,” Kat told
him. Her voice revealed no doubts.

“Yours are not much better,” Jim retorted. “You
know, with York dead, we probably can’t prove that you caused the accident that
killed Briggs. If Trooper Johns lives, you might get out of prison someday and
have a shot at a somewhat normal life.”

Kat laughed as if Jim had told a genuinely funny
joke. When she spoke again, her voice was deeper and more malevolent.

“What is a
normal
life, Trooper Demore?”

Kat’s eyes almost glowed in the dark as she
spoke. Something sounded wrong with her voice. Or, with his hearing? Some
residual effect from the explosion? Or, maybe, just the wind? Changes in
atmospheric pressure distorting the sound waves? Regardless, Kat suddenly
sounded damn unnatural.

“Your friends don’t have to die, Jim.”

Kat said his name as if they’d been intimate.

“There is a way out of this for all of you,” she
promised.

Saffi’s eyes were now wide open, and she kept looking
up at something above him. Jim glanced up. The blackness above them seemed
almost alive. Jim felt the hairs on his arms and neck stand up.

“There is only one way out of this for you, Ms.
Connors,” Jim replied. “Your two boys back there are dead, and if you harm her,
I’ll put a bullet right between your eyes. No trial. No plea bargain. If you
give up now, yeah, you’ll do a few years, maybe even a decade or two, but you
probably won’t die in prison.”

Kat’s eyes blazed in the darkness and she began
sideling around toward the door, careful to keep Saffi between Jim’s gun and
herself.

“If she dies, it will be your fault,” Kat said,
the intimate tone gone from her voice. “Can you live with that?”

Jim refused to take the bait.

“If she dies,” he said, “you die.”

“There are things much worse than death, Trooper
Demore. Things that kill your spirit, your soul, every day, and the next day
you wake up and it happens all over again.”

Kat had inched her way back until she felt the
door behind her. She used one hand to hold both the knife and Saffi’s bound
wrists, and the other hand to turn the doorknob. The wind grabbed the door and
it flew open and slammed against the back of the house. Kat continued to back
down the stairs, keeping Saffi close to her. The blade of the knife jerked and
jumped, pricking Saffi’s skin through her shirt.

The wind roared past Kat and into the kitchen.
Kat struggled to hold onto Saffi while Jim fought to keep his balance and aim.
If Kat moved out from behind Saffi by a fraction of an inch, he would take the
shot. But Kat was able to keep Saffi between herself and his line of sight.

“Don’t be stupid, Kat,” Jim shouted over the wind
noise. “There’s no place to go.”

Strong gale winds buffeted both women. Kat
continued to pull Saffi backward toward the line of brush and trees that hid
the spring. Jim followed them out of the house and into the storm. Big drops of
rain beat against him, heralding the coming downpour. A faint rumble of thunder
mixed with the sound of the whipping wind.

A malevolent presence seemed to wrap itself
around Jim. A blanket of depression enveloped him. Carl was dying, or maybe
dead already. Someone, probably Kat or one of her goons, had murdered de la
Garza. Briggs had gotten himself and Kimberly decapitated. Saffi might be the
next to die. It almost made Jim wish he were back in Afghanistan, or Iraq.

A dark, malicious shadow seemed to have fixed
itself to his life and career, and even if he got out of this situation alive,
the cost would compound horror upon horror. He did not want to be responsible
for Saffi’s death. He had somehow managed to turn a routine accident
investigation into a big bowl of shit soup, and he was being spoon-fed giant
helpings by a sexpot, demon-possessed, master criminal.

“For God’s sake, Kat, give it up,” Jim shouted,
the wind whipping his words away into the night.

New thunder, louder and closer, punctuated Jim’s
plea.

“It’s a little late to bring God into this,” Kat
shouted back. “Not that he could do you any good. I have a feeling that you
never had much use for God anyway. Help yourself, Jim. Help your friends. We
can work this out in a way where everyone wins.”

Even shouting over the wind, she had adopted a
more soothing tone. Benign. Almost friendly. It sounded full of the same
pseudo-understanding he had experienced from the counselors for post-traumatic
stress disorder that the military had forced him to endure after returning from
the Middle East. Kat offered him sweet succor. Relief. A way to save Saffi, if
not himself.

When the next flash of lightning lit up the air
around them, he saw that Kat’s eyes did not match her voice. Her voice was
saying “Let me save you, Jim.” Her eyes were saying, “I’ll take you to hell
with me.”