The Demon Pool (2 page)

He sat for a moment. Naked and alone. Yet,
somehow, he did not feel alone. He looked down at the water. Was it a trick of
the late afternoon light?

He stared at his reflection. He looked younger.
The wound to his jaw had already closed. Only a faint pink line remained. His
earlobe appeared whole. He touched it, surprised to find nothing missing.

He closed his eyes and slid down into the water
until it enveloped him like a warm cocoon. Weeks of fatigue floated away. He
felt revived, changed. When he sat up again, he wiped the water from his face
with his hand and waited until the pool became still. He looked at his
reflection again. He saw no wounds, no scars.

He gazed at the east end of the spring where the
water continued to bubble and dance. The play of sunlight and water reminded
him of a fountain. Once again, he stared down at the liquid mirror where his
younger, more handsome reflection smiled back at him. Had he done what the
adelantado had failed to do? Had he found the fabled Fountain of Youth?

A silver Corvette Z06 rocketed south on Interstate 75
when it set off the radar inside of Corporal Jim Demore’s patrol car. The black
Florida Highway Patrol Charger, with its white roof trim and tail stripe, sat
tucked away in the median of I-75 between oleander bushes. Jim held his cell
phone to his ear as his girlfriend’s voice droned on as the Corvette raced
past.

“I’m tired of you spending all of your damn time
at work and school,” she said.

Anger, weariness, and resignation peppered her
words. “Relationship fatigue,” she had once called it.

He held onto the phone and reached forward to
activate his siren. He glanced to the right, put the Charger in drive and
pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The rear tires spun out until they gained
traction against the crushed seashells and plant matter that covered the
median.

He steered the Charger with his free hand as he
put the phone back up to his ear.

“Linda, I got to go,” he said.

“No, dammit. Don’t you dare hang up. I’m not
doing this anymore. We have to talk. Five years. Are you just going to throw
that away? What about the house? I made a commitment to you. Where’s your
commitment to me?”

“Linda, I have a job to do. Okay? We’ll talk
later.”

He did not wait for her reply. He knew she could
hear the siren. He used his thumb to disconnect the call and he shoved the
phone back into its holster.

A quarter of a mile into the pursuit, he glanced
at the Charger’s digital speedometer. One hundred miles per hour and climbing.

Vehicles in front of the Charger scrambled to
pull over. The gap closed between the two cars. He looked at the Charger’s
speedometer again. One twenty and holding. He hoped the Corvette’s driver
realized he had as much chance of winning this race as Jim had of winning his
argument with Linda.

His cell phone rang again. Probably Linda. She
hated when he cut her off. Jim ignored the phone. Had it been five years
already?

Ahead, the Corvette’s brake lights flashed on and
off. The right turn signal came on and the Corvette slid over to the paved
shoulder.
Good. This guy is using his head.

Jim braked as the gap between the two cars
closed. He thought about the five-year investment in his relationship with
Linda. They had finally taken that relationship to the next level – buying the
house together. They had talked about setting a date for a wedding. Had started
a “honeymoon fund” together. All the regular stuff that committed couples do.
Now she was pitching a fit about the job. Would it come down to changing
careers or changing girlfriends?
God, I hope not.

As the Corvette came to a stop, Jim pulled behind
it. He put the Charger in park and punched the license plate number into his
computer. In a few seconds, the registration came back. He recognized the
driver’s name. He’d thought the Corvette looked familiar. He would be giving
Mr. Jefferson Augustine Briggs his second ticket in six months.

Jim opened the door on the driver’s side. Hot,
sticky Florida air pushed its way in, displacing the cool air inside. Late
August in South Florida seemed like the Devil’s own personal sauna. He stepped
out of the Charger and paused for a moment as a twinge of pain shot through his
right knee. It had taken him a year of intense physical therapy to return to
full-duty with the Highway Patrol after his last tour in Afghanistan. Although
he felt some occasional stiffness, the last few months were mostly pain-free.
Mostly.

Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. He put on
his regulation Smokey Bear campaign hat. Even Jim, a native-born Floridian,
found the heat and humidity oppressive. He wondered how anyone survived the
steamy Florida summers before the invention of air conditioning.

As he approached the back of the Corvette, the
driver’s side window slid down. He stopped just behind the driver’s door and
leaned forward toward the open window. He kept his right hand on his gun.

“License, registration and insurance, please, Mr.
Briggs.”

Jim spoke in a professional, but pleasant tone.
He watched Briggs’ eyes jump to the nametag above Jim’s left pocket. Briggs
smiled as he spoke.

“We’ve done this before, haven’t we, Trooper
Demore?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Briggs, I believe we have.”

From behind his sunglasses, Jim’s eyes swept the
Corvette’s interior. Nothing looked unusual. Briggs reached up and removed his
registration and proof of insurance from the visor. He handed them over to Jim.
Then Briggs pulled out his wallet and handed his driver’s license.

“I know I was going a little fast, but I’m having
dinner in Naples with the governor this evening. Just the two of us for a
change. Don’t want to be late.”

Briggs smiled.

Jim shook his head and returned the smile.

“You were doing a hundred and six, Mr. Briggs.
I’ll be back in a moment, sir.”

Jim returned to the Charger. Inside the patrol
car, he checked the computer again. No wants, no warrants, and no other
outstanding traffic tickets. Except for the ticket he was getting ready to
write, and three points from the previous ticket, Briggs was clean.

He filled out the citation, writing 90 in a 75 as
the violation. Despite Briggs’ comment about dinner with the governor, a
not-so-subtle attempt to influence Jim’s decision whether to write a ticket or
a warning, he actually liked the man. For the most part, anyway. Briggs might
have wealth and connections, but he also had an easy smile, and had treated Jim
with respect both times he’d stopped him. That was not always the case with the
wealthy vacationers and business people who drove the freeway between Tampa and
Naples.

***

Briggs kept glancing in the Corvette’s rearview mirror.
Come on. Hurry up
.

He looked at his watch, a Bentley Mulliner
Tourbillon chronograph. He had paid more than $200,000 for the platinum
timepiece. For Briggs, though, the watch was more than a status symbol. It
wasn’t about being the rich guy with the fast car and expensive watch. If a
potential investor recognized and complimented him on the Bentley, he knew he
had a whale and not some little fish.

Briggs’ eyes went back to the rearview mirror.
The patrol car’s flashing lights continued to announce Briggs’ failure to heed
the warning from his radar detector. He had been on the phone with Robert Teal,
his head of research at Advanced Genetic Technologies, when he blew past
Trooper Demore. Teal had informed him that Teal’s lead research assistant was
moonlighting at a topless joint near MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa. The
woman, Kat Connors, had worked at AGT for just over a year, and according to
Teal, had proven herself a competent lab technician. Briggs had also heard that
she was hot, but he had never met her. Not yet, anyway.

He felt he paid his employees well. Well enough
that his female employees had no need to moonlight, let alone at a gentleman’s
club. He wondered how this little morsel of indiscretion got past AGT security.
He would deal with the security lapse as soon as he returned from Naples.

Briggs looked in his rearview mirror again.
There
are going to be some serious changes when I get back to Tampa
.
Where the
hell is that damn cop?

Briggs watched as Trooper Demore stepped out of
his car. Demore returned to the Corvette with less caution than before. Briggs
noticed that Demore’s right hand no longer rested on the butt of his gun. He
held a clipboard with a ticket attached.

“Mr. Briggs, my radar had you doing 106 in a 75
mile-per-hour zone. However, I appreciate your cooperation and that I didn’t
have to chase you halfway to Naples. I wrote you up for 90.”

Briggs gave him his best glad-you’re-my-friend
smile as Demore pointed to the bottom of the ticket.

“Please sign here, sir.”

Briggs hesitated.
Maybe there is a reason this
guy stopped me today.

“You know, Trooper Demore, I might have an
opening soon on my company’s security team. I can tell that you are a sharp guy
who knows what he is doing. How about a job with the hottest biotech company in
the South? Good money, regular hours, benefits, pretty much the total package.
We even have a generous clothing allowance. My security guys wear nice suits.”

Demore smiled. “I’m not much of an indoor person,
Mr. Briggs,” he said. He paused for a moment. “And I actually like what I do.
Maybe serving the public for a living sounds old-fashioned.”

Briggs continued his own forced, but
well-practiced, smile.

“You know, Trooper Demore, that’s exactly what we
do at AGT. We serve the public. We serve by conducting the most advanced genetic
research in the country. We do research that even MIT can’t duplicate. Millions
of people are going to live dozens of years past their genetic potential
because of what we do.”

It was Briggs’ turn to pause as he searched Jim’s
face.

“And it won’t hurt that in the process we are
going to create more millionaires than Microsoft. There is no price that people
won’t pay to live longer. Especially when we free them of the diseases that
come with aging.”

Briggs’ face became serious as he reached into
his jacket and pulled out a business card.

“Think about it. Here’s my card. Call me
personally if you ever get tired of chasing cars and scraping up roadkill.”

Briggs turned his smile back on as Jim accepted
the card and handed him the clipboard.

“As you already know,” Jim said, “your signature
is not an admission of guilt. It simply means that you agree to appear in
court. Of course, you always have the option of paying the ticket by mail.”

Briggs signed the ticket without comment and
handed the clipboard back to Jim.

“I appreciate your offer, Mr. Briggs but, like I
said, I’m really not an indoor person. Now, please, slow down, sir. It would be
a shame if the next roadkill I scrape up has your license plate attached to
it.”

***

Briggs’ smile faded as he reached for the
Corvette’s window switch. Jim understood men like Briggs. Men who usually got
their way and damn sure did not like being told “no.” He had seen the same
trait in his father.

The Corvette pulled away, picking up speed as it
merged into the travel lane. Jim watched for a moment longer and then looked at
the business card. The card looked expensive, printed on high-quality paper
with an elegant font. The logo consisted of a purple and blue figure eight
character embedded with diagonal yellow, purple and blue slashes. A stylized
DNA double helix.

The card read:

Dr. Jefferson Augustine Briggs, PhD, Chief
Executive Officer, Advanced Genetic Technologies, Our research begins where
God’s miracles end
.

He thought about Briggs’ offer. Regular hours,
benefits, not having to wear a uniform. Linda hated being around him when he
wore his uniform, which was funny since that had been one of the things he
thought had initially attracted her. At least that was what she had told him.
His cell phone rang again.

He sighed, put the business card away, and took
out the phone. He flipped it open, glanced at the caller’s number and spoke
without waiting for the voice on the other end.

“Look, I like being a cop. I know you don’t get
that, but it’s what I am and that’s not going to change anytime soon.”

Silence.

“Goodbye, Jim,” she said.

The line went dead before Jim could reply.

Jim stood beside the freeway watching the
southbound traffic react to his car. Some people rubbernecked. Others stared
straight ahead, both hands on their steering wheels at 10 and 2, probably
thanking the freeway gods that he was outside his car, and that today, they
would not be sacrificed on the altar of traffic court.

It was not that he was not willing to make some
sacrifices for his relationship with Linda, but some was not enough for her.
Linda was high maintenance.
No, actually high, high maintenance
.

Her family had immigrated to Florida from the
Dominican Republic when she was a child. Her predominantly Spanish bloodline,
with a hint of African ancestry, made her exotically beautiful.
Oh yeah, she
is something special
.
And she damn well knows it
.

He took Briggs’ business card back out of his
shirt pocket and stared at it.
How do you know which decision you’re going
to regret in ten — or even five — years?

He already knew the answer.
You don’t
.

Kat Connors stared at her reflection in the mirror. She
did not look like most of the girls that worked at the club. No tattoos, no
weird body piercing, and no silicon. Unlike most of the girls working tonight,
she wore her make-up light and natural. She turned sideways. Nothing sagged.
Not
bad for white trash.

Kat looked around at the dancers’ dressing room.
It was a large room, but it seemed crowded due the number of girls working on
Friday night. Forty makeup stations, aligned against two walls, filled the
elongated room. Forty mirrors, reflecting a dozen naked and half-dressed
dancers, made the room resemble a porn-freak’s fun house. Clothing and costumes
hung everywhere. Scattered stiletto heels, along with open trunks and suitcases
filled with thongs, G-strings and other lingerie formed a Victoria’s Secret
obstacle course. To Kat, it looked like an overcrowded cabin at some sick
summer camp for throwaway girls.

She might have become one of those throwaway
girls. Abused, addicted, and incarcerated in a waking nightmare of drugs,
alcohol, and easy money. Luckily, some instinct, some survival mechanism, kept
her away from the drugs and alcohol that made most of her fellow dancers
victims of one sort or another.

The air in the room hung thick with perfumes and
nail polish, punctuated by female sweat. It was an odd, pungent odor much
different from the sterile laboratory smells of Kat’s day job at Advanced
Genetic Technologies. She tried not to breathe too deeply.

While her lab technician day job gave her health
insurance and a sense of being a respectable member of society, something her
mother had claimed she would never be, working at the club gave her cash. And
in Kat’s economy, cash was king.

She pulled on a thong, a tiny pair of shorts, and
a skimpy halter-top. Along with her natural makeup, the outfit gave her a cute,
girl-next-door look. A look that she knew certain men would pay a premium for.
She looked at herself again. Not bad. Not bad at all, but not perfect. Not that
it mattered. Guys never saw the flaws that she saw in herself.

She sat at her makeup station and put on a pair
of relatively modest, five-inch heels. She did not care much for the porn-star
heels that some other girls wore. She checked the large clock on the wall at
the far end of the room.
Nine o’clock, almost showtime
.
Just another
night in paradise.

She stood and picked her way across the dressing
room toward the door leading out to the club. At the last station, she glanced
at her reflection again.
Nope. Not bad at all
.

A small bulletin board hung next to the door. She
checked the Friday night schedule. She didn’t have to be on stage until fifteen
after ten. She pushed the door open and stepped into the club. She paused,
letting her eyes adjust to the dim, smoky interior. Alcohol and cigarette stink
replaced the perfume and makeup smells of the dressing room.

Kat strolled through the club, smiling and
stopping to say hello to men she recognized. She stopped in the middle of the
club, glanced around, and spotted the man she was looking for — Bruce York.

She watched Bruce watch her as she walked toward
him. He always watched her, ever since he first came to the club. And that was
exactly how she wanted it.
Bruce, this Kat’s for you
.

Her smile grew brighter at her silly twist on the
archaic beer commercial. Bruce smiled back at her as if the smile had been for
him instead of about him.
Foolish man.

Bruce sat alone in a booth reserved for VIPs. Kat
lifted her chest slightly, placed one foot in front of the other and let her
hips roll just a bit more than usual as she approached the booth. Her eyes
locked on Bruce’s and she slid in beside him. A two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle,
but actually third-rate, champagne sat on ice at the table. Bruce held a
half-full glass. She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. A pouty red mark
tattooed his face.

Bruce looked older than his fifty years. Medium
height and on the heavy side, he had short, thinning, black hair that never
behaved. Unremarkable defined him.

“You started without me,” she sulked in mock
disappointment.

“I didn’t want to drink soda and you know I can’t
mix beer and champagne,” Bruce apologized. “Besides, I knew you would be out
soon.”

“You take me for granted, Bruce. What if I had
another customer? You’d have had to drink the whole bottle by yourself and then
what would you do?”

“Go to the bathroom a lot?” he said through a
silly grin.

Kat laughed. Thirty girls worked on Friday
nights. Any other guy would have told her not to worry, that he would’ve found
someone else to share it with. But not Bruce. She had this guy nailed down.
Tight. She picked up the other champagne glass and waited for Bruce to pour.

“How was work?” Her voice almost a purr.

Bruce shrugged.

“Keeps me busy. The federal government has a lot
of property in Florida. Someone has to watch over it.”

He filled Kat’s glass and put the champagne back
on ice. His smile grew as he lifted his glass toward Kat.

“I got the car,” he said.

Kat touched her glass to his.

“Nice. Show it to me later?”

Bruce’s eyes went wide and his grin wider.
Unmistakable pride brightened his face.

“Sure.”

Bruce finished off his drink while she sipped hers.
She had first seen Bruce in the club several months before. He always wore a
suit, sat alone sipping a beer or soda, and left before the club closed. Kat
never saw him pay for a lap dance. Never saw him sitting with one of the other
dancers. He seemed nice enough. One of the dozens of middle-aged guys who
floated in and out of the club on their way to an empty retirement and their
first heart attack. The dancers’ bread and butter.

One evening, as she strolled the club on a slow,
off-payday weekend, she noticed the expensive TAG Heuer Kirium watch on his
wrist. She slid into the booth beside him and started talking. His face turned
red and he looked like he might experience cardiac arrest right then. She had
read once that a man’s watch made a statement about his station in life. A lot
of guys wore fake Rolexes. But nobody wore a fake TAG Heuer.

It took effort, but Bruce soon started buying her
drinks. Not long after that, she got him to bump it up to the
two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle, third-rate champagne. She never promised Bruce
anything specific for his investment. She didn’t need to. She could say more
with a touch and a look than most women could with a thousand words.

It seemed as if Bruce always had money. More than
she expected from a divorced, mid-level, government bureaucrat. Too shy for lap
dances, he simply slipped her a twenty-dollar bill four or five times during
the evening. Now that she had him hooked, Kat had to decide what she wanted to
do with him. The trick with these guys was to keep them coming back without
actually giving them what they ultimately wanted.

The club’s DJ announced the next set and she let
her hand fall to Bruce’s thigh.

“My turn to dance. Maybe you can stay around
tonight. Show me the new car when I get off?”

“I have to go in early tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday? I thought you worked for the
government?”

Bruce looked conflicted.

Kat slid out of the booth. She leaned over and
left another red mark on Bruce’s cheek.

“I really want to see the car, Bruce. You’re not
the kind of guy who leaves a girl disappointed, are you?”

She smiled a wicked little smile and walked off
toward the stage.

***

Bruce watched Kat stroll away. She climbed the stairs
and stood next to the dancers’ pole. The DJ boomed Kat’s introduction.

“Get those fives and tens ready cause Kat’s back
and the girl next door is worth a whole lot more.”

Bruce glanced back at the bottle of champagne and
then looked at his watch. He had the car and she wanted to see it. He would
stay until her shift ended. He could always catch a nap in his office later.
Maybe
tonight would be the night.

He finished the champagne in his glass and
immediately refilled it. He found it funny the way he’d become used to the
taste of overpriced bubbles.