The Demon Pool (41 page)

Jim did not want his leg ripped off. He allowed his
body to spin with the gator’s death roll. The second time, his head broke the
water and he was able to suck in a gulp of air. He felt the bones cracking in
his leg. After the fourth time around, the gator stopped and adjusted his bite.

Jim’s face broke the water and he sucked down a
deep breath, the longest one he’d been able to manage. The gator rolled him
over again, but Jim would be ready the next time he came up. He had a plan, but
four more spins had him out of breath and in excruciating pain. He was sure one
more time around would take his leg clean off.

Jim’s face came out of the water just as his
lungs forced him to inhale. Instead of water, mercifully, he got air. The
attack paused for another second. A memory rushed into his mind. A class he had
taken, given by State Fish and Wildlife agents, on the proper dispatching
techniques for gators. The ones that had developed a proclivity for human flesh
and could not be returned to the wild.

He ignored the agonizing pain in his leg and did
one more sit up. He was sure it would be his last if his effort failed.
God,
if I ever needed your help, it’s now.

He reached forward and shoved his left thumb into
the gator’s right eye socket, pushing past the eyeball, giving himself a tiny
handhold on the side of the gator’s head. The gator flinched, but held on. Jim
shoved the barrel of the pistol into the empty socket where the gator’s left
eye had once been.

The alligator’s brain sat a couple of inches behind
its eyes, directly between the earflaps, behind a hard, thick skull. A shot
through the eye socket would be Jim’s only chance. The pistol’s thirty-eight
caliber bullet was not much smaller than the alligator’s walnut-sized brain.
Jim pulled the trigger.

***

In the microsecond between the gun’s retort and the
bullet slamming into the gator’s brain, Baalzaric fled. He tried to enter
Demore, because even a seriously injured human would be better than a return to
watery isolation, but he could find no open path. Whatever Demore had come to
believe about the supernatural, it had not translated into an open door into
Demore’s soul. Disembodied in the pool, he could do nothing to Demore.

Again, he found himself lost in his world of liquid
loneliness. His only hope was that the bastard cop who put him there would
bleed to death from a ruptured artery.

***

When the jaws of the gator went limp, Jim was able to
open its mouth and pull his mangled leg free. In the darkness, he couldn’t see
the extent of the damage, but he felt it. The pain itself had become a
demon-creature possessing his leg.

At the edge of the water, he found Kat’s sundress.
He grabbed the material and dragged himself out of the water and up onto the
bank. He knew he was in trouble. His right leg was a bloody, twisted mess.
Although the bottom half of his leg remained attached, the gator had ripped the
knee socket loose. A few long strings of flesh and some badly crushed muscle
was all that held his leg together.

He felt cold and light-headed. He needed to stop
the bleeding or resign himself to die in this place. He ignored the pain and
began ripping Kat’s dress into long strips. He braided three strips of cloth
into a strong, single piece and wrapped it around his leg, tying it into place
above his knee. He knew he would need a much tighter tourniquet to keep from
bleeding out.

He tore three more strips of sundress and
prepared another single, braided piece. He picked up the pistol from the grass
where it had fallen from his hand and jammed it between the cloth and his leg.
He twisted the pistol, tightening the tourniquet as much as possible. He held
the pistol in place while he used his free hand and his mouth to tie the ends
of the cloth together into a tight, secure knot. It was all he could do.

The wind inside the clearing had picked up,
blowing hard now. Rain slammed down from an angry sky. Jim had no protection
out in the open, and whatever power that had protected the little oasis from
the hurricane-force winds had vanished.

With what was left of his strength, Jim dragged
himself toward the edge of the clearing to find shelter. The grassy expanse he
crossed was a soft blanket that invited Jim to stay, to rest. Jim fought off
the feeling.
Rest when you’re dead, Jim.

His Marine drill instructors would have told him
the same.
Rest when you’re dead.

And he was not dead.

Not yet, anyway.

***

Saffi called 911. The fishmonger’s wife attended to
Saffi’s injuries and then they prayed. They prayed aloud. Their voices carried
passionate pleas for God’s mercy and for aid for Jim and Carl. They prayed for
the safety of the people of Ft. Myers and Southwest Florida, and they prayed
that God, in his infinite wisdom and grace, would turn the hearts of the people
away from darkness and evil and toward the light of his Son.

Trooper Gone Wild says “The devil made me do it.
”

The tabloid headline screamed from the magazine
racks at every grocery store. Within hours, looky-loos and trespassers swarmed
the de la Garza estate. Tearing down fences, tearing up floor boards. Some
looking for treasure, some looking for the devil. Two teenagers drowned in the
pool the first week after the story broke. Unrestrained curiosity made the pool
dangerous. Damage caused by the hurricane, and by the uninhibited greed of
amateur treasure hunters, made the mansion unsafe.

After the teenagers drowned, the federal government
repaired the fences and brought in two Navy divers to check the pool. They
found neither Kat’s body nor the gator’s corpse. During the search, one of the
divers claimed that something had attacked him, but the medics that examined
him afterward found no physical injuries. The tabloids dubbed the spring “The
Demon Pool,” and a news blackout descended on the recovery operation. The Navy
transferred the affected diver to a treatment facility for post-traumatic
stress. The government condemned the entire property.

***

Jim watched from outside the fence as the huge ball at
the end of the crane crashed through the top gable of the de La Garza mansion.
A big Cat bulldozer sat close by, its engine idling, and the operator waiting
for enough of the structure to come down to begin his task of cleaning up the
debris. Before the destruction of the mansion began, the federal government had
trucked in tons of native, crushed shell and used it to fill in the pool that
sat in the clearing behind the house.

Jim had visited the estate during that particular
week. He watched as dump truck after dump truck drove through the gate. The
official story was that after the two teenagers drowned, investigators
discovered the spring had been contaminated by toxic algae. That explanation
led to the decision to fill the pool with native shell. EPA officials claimed
that the shell would act as a natural filter for the remaining ground water.
Jim knew different.

The official story was crap. Nevertheless, the
State and the Feds closed the case and buried the evidence under tons of clean,
white fill. Somewhere under the massive load of shell was Kat’s corpse. Jim
believed that the hurricane’s winds must have driven Kat’s lean, muscular body
toward the center of the pool where it had sunk. After the incident with the
Navy Seal, government officials judged it too dangerous to continue the attempt
to recover her body from the deep blackness of the pool.
Good decision.

The news media also had reported, rather
gleefully, it seemed to Jim, that Kat Connors was the only woman ever shot and
killed by an on-duty Florida Highway Patrol officer. Of course, Jim had the
dubious distinction of being that Trooper. He had officially been back on duty
as of midnight that night, thanks to the efforts of Major Kant.
Trooper-Gone-Wild, this time with his gun.

Jim watched the ball float through the cooler but
still thick air, striking the building again, just below the roof. Cold sweat
rolled down the back of Jim’s neck and he shivered. He couldn’t prove it, but
he believed that someone in the government believed the tabloids.
Otherwise,
why fill in the pool and destroy the building?

The wrecking ball made another strike, this time
smashing completely through the historic structure. The building, its framework
and foundations weakened by the repeated blows, collapsed in and on itself,
throwing dust and pieces of roof tile into the air.

He didn’t care much about the official story. He
and Saffi had spent hours discussing what had happened while he recovered from
the amputation of his right leg at the knee. Jim had even gone to church with
Saffi a couple of times, later in his recovery. For Jim, the battle with the
forces of hell had left him with a simple understanding. There was Good and
there was Evil and, as remarkable as it seemed to him, the substance of life
did go beyond physical reality. Science would only take us so far.

The dozer lurched forward toward the demolished
building. The big Cat would clean up the mess left behind by the other Kat.
Cleaning up debris left by selfish — and occasionally, evil — people took some
real work. Of the two, the big Cat’s operator had the easier task.

His leg ached. “Phantom pain” the doctor had
called it. Jim would learn to live with it. Just as he was learning to live
with the knowledge that things existed that science and raw, materialistic
naturalism could never explain. Things like the existence and physical
manifestation of evil, questions like where the soul comes from and where it
goes after death, and why we only live for a few decades when we are born with
seemingly infinite potential.

He and Saffi had talked and talked. She offered
answers and most seemed reasonable, given his recent experience. Nonetheless,
something inside him was not ready to take the same leap of faith as Saffi. He
felt that he needed more time. More time to think, to study. Maybe even to
pray. Of course, at the same time that he wanted more time, he realized he
couldn’t be sure that he would have even one more second in this life. Pedro
didn’t. Uncle Jack didn’t.
Scary thought
.

His investigation into Briggs’ death became the
catalyst that led the State to take a closer look at Advanced Genetic
Technologies. What they found there shocked everyone. Even Florida’s most jaded
liberals were not ready to accept human fetal farms. The uproar was virtually
unanimous. He thought about the headline when they arrested Robert Teal.
“Florida’s Dr. Mengele.”
Teal would have gone to trial, but his behavior
became so bizarre that the State shrinks sent him to Gainesville, to the North
Florida Evaluation and Treatment Center. A few weeks later, a major
pharmaceutical company bought out AGT and promised to close down the offending
research.
Did they? Or did they just move it offshore somewhere? A lot of people
wanted to live forever. What price would they pay for that privilege?

Jim reached down and rubbed his right leg above
the knee. The pain he felt in the missing limb was as real as any other pain in
his life. Some days the emotional and physical pains twisted together into
tangled feelings that left him wondering why God had even bothered to let him
live. Other days, his pain was the tribute that complemented the other trophy
from his battle with Kat Connors and the supernatural evil she had poured into
his life. His prosthetic leg.

The State of Florida spent a small fortune on his
artificial limb. He did not often feel as if anyone owed him anything, even
after serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. But the prosthetic leg became the major
exception.

The prosthesis was incredibly advanced, and
designed to allow him the possibility of returning to active duty with the
Highway Patrol. Major Kant had put her own career on the line, defending Jim’s
decision to go it alone to save Carl. One problem, though — the “Trooper Gone
Wild” story. That media extravaganza had tainted him. Branded him. They may as
well have etched “Trooper Gone Wild” into his forehead.

Nope. He was done. Any future, perceived mistake,
any false accusation, would always result in the resurrection of Trooper Gone
Wild. Jim knew that the media, and maybe even some in law enforcement, would
forever question his credibility. Forever doubt his judgment as a cop.
Damaged
goods.
That would be his epitaph.

But being disabled in the line of duty? That would
be an honorable end to his law enforcement career. So he did what many others
whose careers had come under a cloud had done — he accepted what he was
entitled to and moved on. He would move far enough away to provide a chance at
a new life
.

Jim turned away from the flattened mansion and
walked toward a white Mazda MX-5 Miata Club parked on the grass shoulder to the
west of the estate’s original gate. Linda waited for him in the car. The top
was down to take advantage of an unseasonably warm, winter day.

The Miata suited Linda perfectly.  She had
told him it was what an environmentally conscious but image-sensitive
supermodel should drive. Not that she had quite yet reached supermodel status.
But Jim had little doubt that she was on her way.

He had to give her credit. In spite of all of
their problems, she had shown herself to be a reasonably thoughtful friend
during his recovery. The romance was surely dead, but it had been Linda who had
helped him plan his escape from Florida, while Saffi had hoped he would stay.
He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat.

“Mario called and said his friend will meet you
at the airport when you get to Maui,” she said. “I’m glad you and Mario got
along. This might have been a bit awkward.”

The one thing that Linda had, in addition to her
looks, was connections. Along with a long line of potential suitors. Making
those connections had become part of her
greater plan
, but, to her
credit, she never left anyone feeling used, even if they actually had been.

“I think you’ll like Maui,” Linda continued. “It
has almost everything Florida has, except you don’t have to sweat as much.”

“So, did you blow the whole insurance check on
the car? Brent told me you got your share out of our house.”

“Jim, it stopped being ‘our house’ a long time
ago,” Linda said.

“Yeah, I guess it did,” Jim said. “Nice car
anyway.”

Jim’s phone rang. He looked at the display.
Saffi’s number showed. He answered.

“At the airport yet?” she asked.

“On the way.”

“Linda driving you?”

“Yeah, she had some time between jobs. Don’t
suppose I’ll see you there?”

“Sorry. Can’t get away today. Kevin Williams kept
diary. The work is piling up,” she said. “I wanted to wish you a safe trip.”

A moment of silence.

Saffi was smart, attractive, and she and Jim had
a strong common interest in all things forensic. Jim had thought they might
have made a good couple, but Saffi was God’s girl, and he was not ready to
become God’s guy. Not in the same sense, anyway. Saffi said she would pray for
him and he believed her. After what had happened, he had no problem with
prayer.

“Call me some time,” he said.

“I can do that. Take care, Jim.”

“Thanks,” he said. The call disconnected.

He would miss Saffi, but more than anything else,
he would miss being a cop. He loved the uniform. He loved the sense of serving
the people of Florida. He loved taking bad people off the street and putting
them where they couldn’t harm his fellow citizens. He loved his job, and he
loved the Florida Highway Patrol. He would miss that most of all.

They cruised for a while without talking. It was
one of those moments where everything that needed saying had been said.
Everything that needed doing had been done.

Jim’s decision not to have the house rebuilt
turned out reasonably well. He took a cash settlement on the replacement value,
paid off Linda, and sold the vacant lot. He had wrapped up the details,
finished the tasks, and tied up the loose ends, and Linda had her share of the
money and her new car. Their silence was mutual consent to a new reality. Life
was changing, had changed, and, most likely, would change again.

He knew that life had forced him to make the
bigger change, but maybe that would not turn out too badly. He had some money
in the bank, a little money coming in each month, and a new job — a new life,
even — waiting from him in Maui. Life was not perfect, but right now, it didn’t
entirely suck either. Except, of course, for losing part of his leg.

They arrived at the Southwest Florida
International Airport and Linda pulled the Miata up to the curb. Jim got out,
grabbed his laptop case, and unloaded the two bags stuffed in the Miata’s
diminutive trunk. Linda waited while Jim dropped his duffel bag and his
carry-on at the curb. He waved off a skycap.

Cars, shuttles, and taxis flowed past, pulling in
suddenly to discharge travelers. Diesel, car and jet exhaust fouled the air.
Jim came back to the car and waited for a full-size bus to pass. He carefully
stepped off the curb, favoring the fake leg, his stump still experiencing occasional
tenderness and irritation. He walked around to Linda’s side of the car.

“I might be in Hawaii in a few months,” Linda
said. “Maybe Mario and I can get over to Maui. Say hello.”

Jim nodded. She looked stunningly beautiful
today.
The perfect princess. Mario’s princess.

“Give me a call,” he told her.

With nothing much else to say, Jim leaned in and
they hugged. Briefly. Perfunctorily.

He walked back to the curb, wobbling a bit as he
stepped back up on the sidewalk. He turned and watched for a moment as Linda
drove off. She flipped him a little wave over her shoulder. He waved back,
thinking she might be looking at him in her rearview mirror.
Probably not.

Jim arranged the strap of his laptop case across
his shoulders, picked up his bags, and headed into the terminal. He looked for
his airline’s counter. The prosthetic leg felt stable as long as he walked on
even ground. Most people might not even be aware that he was a one-legged man.

At the counter, Jim checked the duffel bag with
an attendant.

“Hey, only one ticket? You going surfing without
me?” she asked, her smile all sunshine and blue sky.

Jim smiled back. No Linda around. No crazy eyes.

“Well, you never returned my call. Do you need my
number again?” Jim asked.

Her smile brightened even more. “Sure.”

She gave Jim her pen and a piece of paper. He
wrote down his name and cell phone number. He also wrote down
Polynesian
Palms Resort
.

“I’ll be there on an extended stay. If you get
away, call me.”