The Demon Pool (21 page)

It had not taken much effort on Kat’s part to get a
couple of club employees to go along with her plan. She did not even have to
offer to sleep with anyone. She had discovered that Tony the bartender, some of
the dancers, and a couple of the managers were members of what she thought of as
her “special shadow club.” The influence she had over the people these wraiths
inhabited surprised her. They all expressed their eagerness to help. She now
believed that something beyond simple candle magick fueled her new power. She
had tapped into some deeper element of the metaphysical. Advantage, Kat.

Demore had worn his uniform to the club, which,
for some reason, made her think of Dudley Do-Right from the old Rocky and
Bullwinkle cartoons she watched as a child. Even though she had caught him
sneaking a peek while at Bruce’s, Demore did not seem to have the level of
interest in her that most men had. Maybe he doesn’t really like girls, or maybe
he’s one of those born-again types. She considered those possibilities, but her
plan rendered them moot.

Once Demore entered the club, Kat knew that in a
minute or two after getting his virgin drink, Demore would be screwed. Tony had
practically bragged how he had perfected his special mix — a powerful blend of
counterfeit Rohypnol and another drug he kept secret.

“Given in the right quantity,” he had said, “the
victim’s involuntary systems keep working, but the drug disconnects the brain’s
voluntary control mechanism, the main link between the conscious mind and the
body.”

“And you’ve used this before?”

“Oh yeah. In the Wan Chai district of Hong Kong.
I grew up there. American father, Chinese mother.”

Kat watched the shadow twist and weave around
Tony.

“The bargirls paid me a small fortune for the
mix. They used it to rob businessmen and politicians stupid enough to cheat on
their wives. They were easy targets because the girls knew that few married
men, especially those in business or politics, were going to report that a
hooker had robbed them.”

“But wouldn’t some of them go to the police
anyway? Claim they had been drugged while just having a drink or two?”

“They might have except for the photos and
videos. With my mix, the victim could still get an erection with a little help
from his new friend. That turned out to be one of the more interesting and
profitable aspects of the drug. Pose the victim, add a couple of naked girls,
record the party, leave the evidence with the victim. It worked every time.”

Unfortunately, for Tony — but now fortunately for
her — one of his hooker associates carelessly overdosed the son of a highly
placed Triad leader. The woman had left the body in the hotel and crossed back
into China, setting up Tony as the fall guy. Tony was on the next available
plane to New York. He stayed in New York for a week before he decided Tampa
seemed a lot safer. No Triad-infused Chinatown to worry about.

Mikey the doorman stood next to Demore. Demore
sat straight up on the stool, his eyes glassy, staring straight ahead, the
remains of his drink puddled on the floor. Whatever the second drug was, it had
done its job. Kat and Mikey escorted Demore around the bar toward the private,
curtained booths of the VIP area. They helped him into the booth farthest from
the stage. Mikey closed the curtain, standing guard on the club side of the
thin barrier. Behind the curtain, Kat stood in front of Demore. She leaned
forward putting her head next to his.

“It’s a shame you’re not going to remember any of
this, Trooper Demore. I have a special gift for you.”

Kat straightened up as a second dancer slid past
the curtain and into the booth.

“He won’t be going anywhere for a while,” Kat
told her.

Kat turned around and stepped out from behind the
curtain. She put her hand on one of Mikey’s huge biceps.

“Crystal is getting him ready. I’ll be right back
with the camera.”

Mikey just grunted and smiled.

Jim sat in the booth. He tried to shout for someone to
call 9-1-1, but his mouth and tongue would not cooperate. They felt thick and
heavy, as if someone had imbedded a chunk of lead in his tongue.

Everything that made Jim who he was — thoughts,
personality, spirit, soul — felt crammed into a tiny place inside his skull.
They were all there, but separated from his body by an infinite, seemingly
unbridgeable gulf.

He could think, see, and feel. Those functions
worked. But something had severed the control connections between his brain and
his body. Not in the way that a paralyzed individual experienced, where the
outer parts ceased functioning altogether. No, this was different. He had walked
to the booth, but he did not want to. His legs carried him along, even though
he wanted to make them stop. A puppet on a string, and Kat Connors pulled that
string.

One moment walking, then sitting. Momentary
blackout?

He needed to focus. Kat had leaned toward him and
said something, but her voice had sounded faint, a universe away. Then, Kat
left and another girl stood in front of him. Just move something, stupid.
Anything, for God’s sake. Focus. Get control.

Nothing moved, but Jim felt something pulling at
him.
At least I can feel.

His eyes refused to do anything but stare
straight ahead, the lead weight still stuck in his tongue. The girl continued
to lean over, doing something around his middle. Jim saw his leather utility
belt float past. Then the tugging began again. Move something, anything,
damnit.

Still, nothing moved. The dancer’s naked breasts
swayed in front of Jim. He wanted to close his eyes. Ignore her. Suddenly,
something moved.
Oh God, not that. Anything else but that.

A bright flash wiped out his view of the breasts.
Hands touched him, stroking the rising hardness in his crotch. Another flash.
Jim’s eyes were open, but his only movement was in his pants. The dancer
stripped off her G-string. Now, fully nude, she began an intimate, lap dance
routine.

More touching. More flashes. More movement in the
wrong place. He was in serious trouble and could not do a damn thing about it.

***

Baalzaric watched through Kat’s eyes as the dancer
“entertained” Demore. The woman, whose gyrations now debauched Trooper Demore,
did not host any spiritual force except her own lust for money. Lust, greed,
power. The engines that propelled the human race forward, and the strongest
weapons available to the Devil’s kingdom. Weapons Baalzaric wielded expertly.

***

When Jim woke up, he was sitting in his patrol car
looking out at the water. For a moment, he just sat there, disoriented, not
sure what had happened. The last thing he remembered was driving toward Tampa
for an appointment with Kat Connors. He didn’t remember arriving at the club or
leaving the club, or driving down toward Tampa Bay — assuming the water he was
looking at was Tampa Bay. I’m somewhere on a friggin beach, but where?

Something was not right. His eyes were open and he
heard the sounds of the bay through the closed car windows, but he felt
sluggish, as if a fog had settled into his brain. Even the bright morning sun,
assuming it was morning, was having a difficult time burning away the
confusion. His hand slid down toward his waist and felt for his duty belt. He
touched the buckle and followed the leather around until he felt his holster.
He let his hand slip up to where the butt of his pistol should be. Jim exhaled.
A massive sigh of relief. His gun was there.

He stared at the bay and tried to think.
How
the hell did I end up here? And just where in hell is here?

He reached up with both hands and rubbed his
faced, then looked out through the windshield again. Somehow, the Charger had
ended up parked at some hard-packed, sand-and-shell parking area. Seagulls and
pelicans dive-bombed the water in front of him. Palm trees and sand divided the
parking area from the water. A large KC-135 Stratotanker was making a slow
approach across the bay from what he guessed was the southwest. OK, I must be
somewhere west of MacDill Air Force Base.

He looked over to his right, down the length of
beach, and saw what looked like some type of terminal. Farther to the north, he
saw a bridge that spanned the length of the bay. Jim surmised that he had
somehow ended up on Picnic Island in Port Tampa.

The temperature inside the cruiser increased.
Sweat oozed from Jim’s pores, beading up on his forehead before running into
his eyes. His mouth tasted as if he had dined on a rich mixture of dirt and dog
crap. He wiped his eyes with his hands, and then began looking for the
vehicle’s keys. He found them in the ignition. He started the car and turned on
the air conditioning full blast. He leaned back in his seat and closed his
eyes. A pair of breasts swayed inches from his face.

Jim’s eyes snapped opened. Sunlight shimmered
across the surface of the bay. He grabbed the steering wheel, stepped on the
brake pedal, and put the car in reverse. As he twisted to look out the rear
window, he saw an unmarked manila envelope sitting on the passenger seat. He
kept his foot on the brakes and picked it up. He felt something sliding around
inside. Damnit, Jim. Try to remember. What did you do last night?

He shoved the shifter back into park and opened the
envelope. He let the contents slide out on to the passenger seat. He saw
photos, a note, and a DVD. He looked at the photos. Someone had filled the
envelope with porn, and in those pornographic photos Jim Demore was the star.
He may have somehow ended up on Picnic Island, but today, sure as hell, would
not be a picnic.

Saffi was standing next to the mass spectrometer
preparing a sample for evaluation when she got the message to call Jim Demore.
Someone had checked the “urgent” block on the yellow Post-it note. Saffi
ungloved and stepped into the small lab assistant’s office. She closed the
door, picked up the phone, and dialed Jim’s cell. He answered on the first
ring.

“Demore.”

Saffi heard the fatigue and stress in Jim’s
voice.

“Jim, this is Saffi. I got your message.”

“Are you at your lab?” Jim asked.

The fatigue suddenly morphed into urgency.

“Yes, but only for about another hour. I have a
meeting. They’re putting together an evidence task force. You’re big news Jim.”

“I think I’m about to become bigger news.”

Urgency amplified by worry.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Jim replied. He hesitated a
moment before speaking again. “Listen, Saffi, something happened to me. I was
supposed to have a meeting in Tampa last night. At a club. A strip club,
actually. But, I woke up a little while ago, in my car, on Picnic Island near
old Port Tampa. Saffi, I don’t know how I got here or what I did last night.”

“Jim, maybe you should call dispatch. Have them
send paramedics. Maybe the explosion…”

Jim cut her off.

“No. No paramedics. And no cops.” Jim thought
about the irony of a cop saying “no cops.” He continued, “This is something
totally separate from the explosion.”

“That was a powerful explosion…”

Jim cut her off again. “I know. I was there.
Remember?” He immediately regretted the sarcasm. “Look,” he said, “this is
something else. Just believe me, okay? I really need your help.”

A pause on Saffi’s end.

“OK, I’ll call my supervisor and tell her I can’t
leave the lab until I get the results of the test I’m working on. Maybe she’ll
accept that.”
And maybe she won’t and I’ll get fired.

“I’m leaving now,” Jim told her.

“Get here as quick as you can,” Saffi replied.

As she hung up the phone, Saffi still wondered if
this had anything to do with the attempted assassination. Maybe she and Jim
would discover some evidence the State, ATF, or FBI had missed. Maybe she would
help Jim remember something that would break the case and lead to the arrest of
the person who planted the bomb. Maybe Jim would be so grateful for her help,
he would ask her out and she could share her faith with him. Maybe he would go
to church with her, become part of her life. Maybe...

Get a grip, Saffi. Stop being such a hopeless,
romantic dork.

Saffi smiled and let the words move from her mind
to her lips, “Maybe...”

***

The manila envelope on the passenger’s seat mocked Jim.
First, they try to blow me up. Then somehow, someone gets dirty pictures of
me doing things I sure as shit don’t remember. What the hell is going on?

He drove out of Port Tampa and turned left onto
Westshore Boulevard. He had to hurry if he was going to arrive at Saffi’s lab
in Ft. Myers in a reasonable amount of time. He hit his lights and flew out of
Port Tampa.

The route to the lab was about one hundred and
thirty miles, and if he hauled ass, he would make it in way less than two
hours. He had a lot to do before he shared the contents of the mocking envelope
with Major Kant.

***

Saffi struggled to maintain her professional composure
as she looked at the photos. The words obscene, pornographic, vile, and vulgar
popped into her mind. Jim stood beside her, his face red, his expression
pained.

Her brain objected to, revolted against, what she
saw. Thirteen photos. Nasty photos of Trooper Jim Demore with a woman in what
looked like a lounge, bar, or restaurant booth. Probably not a restaurant. A
bar or club somewhere? Maybe the strip club he mentioned?

The woman in the photos, whose appearance
screamed “strip club,” did obscene things to Jim that Saffi had only seen once
before when she had caught her little brother looking at an adult website. She
immediately booted the little pervert off the computer and then guiltily
lingered on the site for a moment herself, morbid curiosity getting the better
of spiritual discernment. The next day a cyber-nanny program appeared on the
family’s computer. As bad as the website photos had been, these pictures were
worse. They had Jim Demore in them.

“Jim, this is awful. What’s on the DVD? More
photos?”

Jim inserted the DVD into Saffi’s laptop. A video
of Jim and the woman started playing. It was raw; twice as nasty as the photos,
and twice as painful to watch.

“How did this happen?” Saffi asked, trying not to
sound judgmental.

“All I remember is that I had an investigative
interview at a club in Tampa. I was following a lead in the Briggs case.”

Jim kept his eyes off the photos and DVD and
fixed on Saffi.

“Next thing, I wake up in my car on Picnic Island
in old Port Tampa and there’s an envelope on the passenger seat with all this
stuff in it.

Saffi looked away from the video and picked up
the note. Someone had printed both the note and the pictures on standard copy
paper; the kind used in most ink-jet printers and sold everywhere.

The note was short and to the point: Private or
public, your choice. Briggs drove too fast and killed himself. Case closed.

No other writing marked the paper.

“I’ll test the paper, the photos, the DVD, and
the envelope, but I’ll be surprised if we find anything,” Saffi said. “Common
paper. Probably printed with an equally common ink-jet printer. Blank DVDs are
a dime a dozen. Anyone who could pull this off would not likely leave
fingerprints. We might be able to match the photos to a location, though. Where
was the meeting?”

“Midnight Oasis Gentlemen’s Club, near Port
Tampa. Outside MacDill Air Force Base.”

It bothered her that Jim had gone in there.
Gentlemen’s
Club. What a joke. You would think he could have come up with a better meeting
place.

“I’ll start testing these right away.” Saffi
said, her voice tinged with just a little extra professionalism that made her
sound detached.

“There is something else,” Jim offered.

He looked her directly in the eye. She blinked,
but did not look away.

“I had to have been drugged for this to happen. I
need a blood test. I won’t let anyone blackmail me, but I need proof that I had
no control over what happened in those pictures.”

“Why didn’t you meet her somewhere else?” Saffi
asked.

She tried to keep any sense of accusation out of
her voice, displaying honest concern and a little sadness.

“I didn’t go there to meet the girl in the
pictures. I don’t even know who she is. I went there to meet a person of
interest. A dancer named Kat Connors. I don’t even remember making it to the
club, but I must have. Connors called me and asked for the meeting. I’m
certainly not the first cop to have to question someone in an unpleasant
location.”

“No, I guess you’re not,” she replied.
Unpleasant
location? Cute euphemism. You were in a strip club for God’s sake. What the
h-e-double-toothpicks were you thinking?

“Roll up your sleeve,” she ordered. Men are so
stupid sometimes. Maybe most times?

“I need to take some blood.” She gave Jim a small
smile.
And I’m going to use the biggest needle I can find. Maybe next time
you won’t be such a cowboy.