Devil in the Grass Read online

  Jack leaned against the brick wall, the howl of a dog in the distance giving him a shiver. He moved back to his car and slumped into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition. He pulled onto the highway and turned back toward the lake house. He decided to double back toward old US Route 27. He didn’t want to take any chances and figured he could hook up with County Road 70 a ways north at Lake Placid. It would take him at least an hour to circumvent County Road 80, but as long as he had the gas, it should keep him clear of his assailants and the police. He had to assume the police would be looking for his car.

  Jack had a rotten feeling in the pit of his stomach and he was furious. The old matriarch Henrietta was cunning. But then, he couldn’t forget the feeling of helplessness when she asked the favor. He didn’t believe in the paranormal, but there was no other logical way of explaining what had happened, other than him having been bewitched. Did Sarah do the same to me? “Fucking witch! Goddamned no-good whore.” He was silent for a few minutes. “I’m gonna kill that fucking bitch.”

  Jack followed the back roads until he hit the outskirts of North Port. In his fury, he had a hard time keeping to the speed limit. The streets were quiet and he made good time, regardless. He headed south on I-75 to Punta Gorda. It would have been faster to continue via the interstate, but he feared that the authorities would be looking for him along that route. At every bend in the road he expected to see a road block, or flashing lights. He drove on until he reached Highway 41, which ran south along the coast. Sarah’s apartment wasn’t more than three blocks from the highway.

  ****

  It was just after one in the morning when he pulled into the driveway of Sarah’s apartment complex. The building was a 1970s three-story condo, with stone and stucco facing on either end. Jack looked down at himself. He was covered with dried blood; he prayed that no one would see him. Shaking his head, he cursed at himself. “No choice now, you dumb bastard. She’s still here, she’s dead.” He walked deliberately to the lobby door and entered the code on a keypad. A green light went on and he stepped into the lobby, depressing the handle as the door buzzed. The entrance was dark and musty, and the orange and black carpet was stained and threadbare. He decided to use the stairs to get to the third floor; he thought running up the stairs might burn off a little nervous energy. The stairwell was dark and smelled of mold, and his feet echoed as he took the steps two at a time. At the third floor, he opened the door to the stairwell and walked briskly to Sarah’s apartment, which was almost directly across the dimly lit corridor. Sarah had given him a key three weeks earlier; it seemed like a natural steppingstone in their relationship.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it inward. He stood back from the entrance for a moment in case there was someone waiting for him inside, then he walked in and flicked on the kitchen light. The room was empty. Cupboard doors stood open and the contents were cleaned out. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. The living room was empty, as were the bedroom and bathroom. Sarah was gone.

  He’d been methodically played. Panic rose in his throat and his heart skipped a beat, his chest tightening to the point that a heart attack seemed possible. He let the sensations subside; to fight them would only make them worse.

  As he stood in the bedroom surveying its emptiness and feeling sorry for himself, he heard a squeak on the floor in the living room. He put his back to the wall as he heard another step in his direction; someone had walked into the apartment. They were not Sarah’s feet. Too heavy. The movement stopped no more than six or seven feet from the bedroom doorway. He cursed under his breath, realizing he hadn’t locked the apartment door when he came inside. His hands felt strangely numb, as did his feet. He clenched his fists several times and decided that he needed to be proactive. There was the possibility that the intruder might be a concerned neighbor, but if he was being hunted, he needed an element of surprise. He stepped into the doorway, not wanting to be stuck in the confined space of the bedroom. In front of him was a fit-looking man, possibly in his forties, with tanned, leathery skin and dark eyes small and close together. In his right hand he held a long, lethal fillet knife. The man grinned and stepped toward him. Jack crouched low, his hands spread to either side like a defensive back. The man stopped, surveying his quarry. Jack moved into the room to avoid being cornered in the doorway. He moved to the right, trying to circle the stalker, not taking his eyes off him.

  The man stepped in the other direction to keep Jack from getting closer to the exit and flexed his hands, the corded muscles in his forearms bulging. It was his attacker who broke the silence.

  “Your little run is over.”

  His voice was native Floridian and the confidence with which he spoke sent a chill down Jack’s spine. The killer grinned, revealing perfect and very white teeth. “You were lucky to evade us at the lake. You won’t be so lucky this time.” As he finished his last word, he lunged forward, the knife swinging in a wide arc. Jack dodged to the left, barely missing the path of the blade as it whipped past his face. He pulled away into empty space, barely keeping his balance.

  “You’re slow,” Jack snarled. “I’ve dodged defensive tackles much better than you. Come on fucker, I’ve had enough bullshit tonight.” Jack tried to goad the leather-faced man forward, but he would have none of it.

  Leatherface lunged again, this time striking a glancing blow on Jack’s thigh. The knife was razor sharp; Jack couldn’t feel any pain, but saw the strip of red appear through the cut in his jeans. Jack made a move to the right, edging closer to the door, and the man lunged again. This time he overextended himself just a little; Jack saw the opening and slammed his elbow down onto his shoulder. Groaning in pain, the man dropped the knife. Jack brought his knee up into his assailant’s jaw; he heard and felt the crack of the man’s jawbone breaking. Jack bolted for the door, not bothering to press the attack. The assassin jumped back to his feet, staggering for a moment, the knife once again in his hand.

  Jack ran through the apartment door heading straight for the stairwell. He opened the door and glanced back; the man was only a dozen paces behind. He pulled the door shut behind him and instead of running down the steps, ducked to the side of the door. It seemed an eternity before the door was slammed open and his assailant ran toward the steps, hesitating as he caught sight of Jack beside the door. Jack charged forward and wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, driving his shoulder into his belly, the force of the attack carrying both men into open space above the stairs. They hung in the air for a few seconds, their momentum carrying both bodies towards the bottom of the stairwell. Jack remained on top of the man as they crashed into the wall at the turn in the stairs with tremendous force. The wind was knocked out of Jack’s lungs and he lay stunned on top of the man for a few deathly quiet heartbeats, before rolling off him. The fishing knife was stuck in the side of Jack’s hip. Jack rolled sideways to feel for a pulse on his enemy’s wrist and found none.

  He sat on a step and put his hand on the handle of the knife. It would be impossible to walk with the blade sticking out of his leg. Taking off his light jacket, he bundled it up to press it down on the wound to staunch any flow of blood. “One, two, three,” he panted, and pulled the blade out. There was little pain, but he knew he had to get treatment on the puncture or it would fester.

  Blood from the wound made a small pool on the cement floor and Jack pondered whether to clean it up, but having watched television shows like CSI, he knew there was no way he could cover up what had happened in any meaningful way. He reached over and searched his dead assailant. All he found was a set of keys in his pants pocket. Jack guessed he drove that old blue Chevy pickup.

  Using the wall as a brace, he pulled himself up to his feet and walked down the rest of the steps and into the foyer, then straight out the door to the parking lot. Next to his car was the old pickup. Too easy, Jack thought, but then again, his assailant hadn’t planned on losing the confrontation. He unlocked the driver’s side door; the cab was full of papers scattere
d on the seat, empty coffee cups, and other debris. The truck smelled of cigars and the ash tray was full. He bundled up the papers and stuck them under his arm. Reaching under the seat he found an old leather wallet, which he shoved into his jeans pocket.

  Jack leaned up against the old pickup for a moment. It wasn’t prudent to be here any longer than necessary. He needed to get lost and could think of only one place: The Everglades.

  In the recent past, he’d turned his back on his native ancestry—his mother was Seminole. Since his well-publicized drug problems, he had avoided his native relatives, his mother’s family, out of humiliation. But there was no other place to turn. He made the decision to head to his grandfather’s house, which was located on an Indian reserve off Highway 41, halfway to Miami. But first he had to get rid of his car; there was no sense making it easier for his pursuers.

  Jack parked the old Ford two blocks away on a side street, locked it, and then made his way back to Sarah’s apartment complex, making sure that the place was devoid of any activity. Within five minutes he was driving the old Chevy pickup south toward Naples.

  ****

  “You went where? Clewiston?” Perry was furious. “Dead people, and you’re being chased by the cops? I told you! Fucking Satanists. Where’s that bitch?” He didn’t even wait for Jack to answer. “You know they can trace an iPhone; it’s all part of that find-my-phone thing on the latest download. The police have got ways of doing this kind of shit. Probably can see where you are now, maybe tap into this call. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

  “This is getting fucked up fast, Per. I went back to Sarah’s place. It’s cleaned out.”

  “No shit.”

  “Nothing, nothing there at all. Then I get jumped by some guy with a knife. We scrap it out for a minute or so then he ends up chasing me into the stairwell. I jump him and we fall down the stairs. The force of the fall, with me on top, breaks the fucker’s neck. Dead as a doorknob.”

  After a long pause, Perry said, “You okay?”

  “Got stabbed in the leg. I don’t think it’s too big a deal.”

  “You’re fucking lucky, bro. This is seriously out of hand. You gotta chuck that phone of yours into a drainage ditch, feed it to the gators.”

  “Call my Aunt Rebecca in Atlanta, here’s the number. Let her know what’s happened. I’m a fugitive now. If I turn myself in, it’s not looking good, so I’m gonna have to figure a few things out first. I think this whole thing is linked to Senator Hunter in some way—I don’t know why, but I do. I’m going to see my family. Can you call Aunt Rebecca for me?”

  Silence. Then: “Yeah, I’ll do it. Ditch the phone.” Click.

  Jack contemplated turning north and heading out of Florida, but that would be expected, and he couldn’t run for long on the five hundred dollars Henrietta had given him. His credit cards were useless. He continued south and waited until Highway 41 made the turn to the east before he chucked his phone out the window into a drainage ditch full of water that ran along the side of the road. He lamented the loss of his connection to the outside world, but knew that it was the safer choice.

  As he stopped at a red light, a police cruiser pulled up beside him. He saw the officer punching something into his onboard computer. He did his best to remain calm. There wasn’t too much traffic at that time of night and he was sure he was being given the once-over. The cruiser moved ahead when the light turned green. Jack took a deep breath and followed, not too closely, making sure he held the speed limit. The officer turned right at the next light and Jack sighed in relief.

  Within forty minutes he passed into Big Cypress Reserve. His Gramps and many of his cousins lived in a small town just off the highway. They ran airboat tours into the Everglades. He hadn’t been there for some time, but not much had changed. He went north along Route 29, which used to be not much more than a dirt path, at best. Now it was paved and provided a link to I-75. He came in the back way down a dirt road to a small encampment of chickee huts—small squat buildings with reed roofs. A short distance past the huts stood a more modern bungalow. He pulled up close to his grandfather’s home and slid out of the truck. The wound in his leg was starting to ache. As he moved toward the house, half stumbling, three men wielding high-powered rifles emerged from the shadows. He raised his hands above his head and didn’t move. The dome light was on in the truck and he hoped it was bright enough that the men could see his face. One lowered his rifle and moved toward Jack, obviously recognizing him.

  “Jackson, you son of a bitch. What the hell are you up to at three in the morning, man? Lucky we didn’t shoot you. We saw the headlights and we came to wake up Gramps.”

  Jack stepped towards the man. “Josh, glad as hell to see you.” He embraced his cousin with a bear hug. Josh was slightly taller but with a similar athletic build as Jack. His face was lean and tanned, with eyes that showed a keen intelligence. His hair was cropped, unlike the two other men who wore their black hair tied back off their faces in ponytails. Jack and Josh had been close in their youth. Jack thought it was a shame that Josh hadn’t taken the opportunity to better himself. His grades had been excellent.

  “Last time I saw you was on TV, getting carried off on a stretcher. You don’t look much better now. You look like a bag of shit. What’s with all the blood?”

  Jack grimaced. “Asshole, I shoulda been a lineman like you in high school—be the hitter, not the one getting hit. At least I made it and played university ball. You shoulda gone.”

  “Florida State is the only college, cousin. You got Seminole blood in you and you played for the fuckin’ Gators?” Josh stiff-armed him in the shoulder, knocking him back a yard, then Jack fell to one knee, obviously in pain. “You alright Jack?”

  “Not exactly . . . I’ve been stabbed.” Jack looked at the other two men. He recognized the one on the left, a childhood friend of Josh’s. “Hey Nate, or should I call you Nathan now?”

  Nate smiled, his brow furrowing slightly. He had always been quiet, and was still on the chubby side. “Nate’s fine. Good to see you Jack, it’s been years. We must have been fifteen?” Nate came over and clasped hands with him helping him to his feet.

  Josh motioned to the third man. “This is Bobby. He doesn’t speak too much, but he can shoot the eye out of a gator at a hundred yards.” Bobby nodded. “Like I said, he don’t talk much.”

  Josh put his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and pulled him towards his grandfather’s house. “K, Jack. Wassup? You’re lucky we were up smokin’ a joint and havin’ a few beers. You mighta got a rude welcome. Don’t you call before you show up here? You know better. It’s shoot first and ask questions later after sunset. Use your phone, brotha.”

  Jack shrugged. “Tossed it in a ditch.”

  Josh shook his head. “I’m not stupid. You’re in trouble. You ain’t homesick for this bug-infested shithole. Gotta be bad, we haven’t heard shit from you in five years. Gramps has been pissed about it. He won’t say shit against you, though.”

  “Would Gramps be pissed off if we woke him up?”

  “Does a bear shit in the woods?”

  Josh rubbed his hand across his face. “Gramps always liked you. Don’t know why, you being a half-breed and all. He’s probably just sick of seeing our sorry asses all the time. He’s the head cheese around here now. You in trouble, you gotta speak to Gramps. What kinda shit you in?”

  “Big trouble, cousin. I mean real big.”

  Josh smiled. “No trouble too big. I’m glad as hell you came home, had some sense. We look after our own, even if you are a half-breed. Boring as shit around here, driving white folk around in an oversized Jeep on stilts to see a few fuckin’ gators, losing my fuckin’ mind. Another fat-assed white guy asks me how dangerous they are, I’m gonna toss him over the side and say, ‘Real dangerous, bite your arm off in seconds.’” Josh chuckled.

  Bobby laughed. “Bite your fuckin’ arm off.”

  Josh shook his head. “Real quiet, then he just says shit.”r />
  Bobby just stood and grinned.

  Josh directed Jack toward the old man’s residence, but when he put a hand on his cousin’s arm Jack retorted, “I haven’t been away so long that I don’t know which house my grandfather lives in. Where’s Grandma?”

  “She’s still shacked up with some guy in Hollywood, haven’t seen her in years.”

  ****

  Gramps’s house sat in the middle of a line of huts that backed onto the swamp. It amazed Jack that his people still lived in these primitive dwellings. It seemed that as the Seminole people got older, they moved closer to their roots. Many of them owned fairly expensive homes in bigger cities, paid for with gambling money or other Seminole business interests. Gramps, as far as Jack knew, was worth at least a few million. Yet he lived in this little house off Highway 41 in the middle of a swamp. He swatted away a mosquito that landed on his cheek.

  As they approached Gramps’s place, the door swung open and out walked a tall, older, native man. His face was wrinkled and brown from the Florida sun and his hair was brush cut and grey. He didn’t look as if he had been sleeping; he was dressed in jeans and a well-tailored shirt, his eyes intently watching the group as they approached.

  Jack moved towards him and bowed his head. “Gramps.”

  The old man stared at Jack, his eyes narrowing. He crossed his arms, not lowering his eyes. He took a pipe out of his jacket pocket, followed by a pouch of tobacco. He placed a small pinch of the weed into the bowl and pushed it down with his thumb. Josh held out his Zippo lighter, flicking it, and the flame was sucked up into the old man’s pipe as he inhaled deeply. The aroma brought back memories; Jack had forgotten the pipe. He and Josh had spent many hours sitting around a campfire years ago, their grandfather telling stories, blowing smoke rings that would rise up towards the stars.

  “You only come when you need help?” He looked at Jack, his eyes like tiny daggers. “You forget about your heritage, but it is the rock upon which you fall. We should let you stand on your own . . . ”