Demon Chaser III

By David Berardelli

Sexy, sassy and dead, Tiffany LeBouf, aided by her dead friend Chip, the trickster, continue their wild adventures in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where they’ve gone to help their friend Ashley escape the powerful super demon Braithwaite, who wants revenge for how the three of them sabotaged his Central Florida multi-billion-dollar land deal. Along the way they meet handsome Jimmy Russo, a popular local magician, who immediately captures Tiffany’s heart. Although Jimmy is equally smitten, he seems to have demons of his own. Tiffany has found that her abilities have grown much greater since leaving Florida. In addition to having the ability to change her appearance and footwear, she can now perform some truly remarkable skills. Although she has no idea why her powers have grown, she knows she will need all her talents to do battle with Andras, the frightening hunter/killer Braithwaite has sent to find them and return them to Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiction4All
• Release date: Aug 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463432495

David Berardelli

David Berardelli was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and grew up on his grandmother's farm in Gibsonia. Formerly a jazz musician, he studied music at Duquesne University for one year before being drafted into the U.S. Army. He was a member of the 80th Army Band at Hunter Army Airfield in Savannah, Georgia, and also performed in the Third Army Soldier Show at Fort McPherson in Atlanta, Georgia. He also served as a bugler at nearly two hundred military funerals between 1970 and 1971. He has been a caricaturist, nightclub musician, and data-processing associate. He presently lives on a thirty-acre horse ranch in southern Mississippi with wife Linda, their horses, and two very bright and spoiled Aussie dogs, Kylie and Wiffle. David is the author of many novels, among them, The Apprentice, Wagon Driver, Demon Chaser and The Funny Detective as well as Stepping Out of My Grave. He is presently at work on several other projects. His email address is [e-mail]. He also is listed in Facebook. His web sites are: www.writersownwords.com/daemons/ www.davesdemons.weebly.com

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PART ONE

The Messenger

DAY ONE

Orlando, Florida

Chapter 1

Daniel Grove sat stiffly at his desk, his eyes glued to the intercom on the blotter in front of him. The rich blue Orlando sky filling the large office window facing him promised another clear, sunny afternoon, and the soft light-blue walls of his office encouraged a calm state of mind. But right now, he didn’t notice the perfect sky or the soft-colored walls. At the moment, he wouldn’t care if a dozen of the world’s hottest babes were gathered in front of his desk, squirming out of their clothes.

It had been twenty-four hours since Mr. Waite’s latest rampage and Daniel was still smarting over the tongue-lashing. The incident had happened shortly after Daniel had come in, shrugged off his Armani jacket and eased his slim frame into his comfortable leather office chair.

Then, precisely at 9:00, the light connecting to Mr. Waite’s office line came on, and Daniel, as usual, felt the chills scurrying up his back like an army of frightened rats.

Any progress, kid? The booming, low-pitched voice sounded as surly as always.

No, sir.

A pause. Nothing? Nada? Zilch? A big, fucking zero?

No--yes, sir.

"Kid, this whole thing is really pissing me off. You know what I do when I’m pissed off, don’tcha? To refresh your memory, I turn assholes who’ve pissed me off into shiny brown shit-smears on the carpet. Now…you don’t want me to turn you into a shiny brown shit-smear, do you, kid?"

No, sir.

"I can’t imagine you wanting to become a shit-smear. That wouldn’t be my primary career choice, if I were in your shoes. Besides, none of the others I’ve done that to have cared for it. Know why?"

Why, sir?

A deep sigh. Kid, if you really need to ask, maybe I should turn you into one. You haven’t exactly been dazzling me with your brain activity, kid. At least, not lately.

No, sir...

"Then do something, goddammit. Get something done. Find those three!"

Click!

Hopefully, this morning would turn out better. So far, there were no voicemails. There were only two emails, both sent by Mr. Waite in the last twenty minutes, about a couple of new escorts who’d been referred to him. Daniel went into one of the confidential files to check the status of the directory. He added the girls’ names, went back to his mail program, and replied to Mr. Waite. He got up, poured coffee, went back to the desk, sat back down and raised the cup to his lips.

Mr. Waite’s light came on at 9:30. Daniel cringed in his seat. Here we go again… With a trembling hand, he touched the button.

About damned time you came in.

Good morning to you too, sir.

Don’t give me that cheery Mr. Rogers shit. You know what I want to hear.

Y-Yes, sir.

Well?

Daniel knew Mr. Waite only cared about finding the missing threesome. This had been bugging both of them the last two weeks, ever since Ashley Parker, Tiffany, and Chip had vanished right from under their noses.

Well, sir, I had a hunch--

What happened with it?

It didn’t quite pan out.

"Are you telling me you still haven’t made any progress with this?"

Yes, sir, I didn’t.

A deep sigh. The clock is ticking, kid. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I’m still thinking about doing the shit-smear number on you.

Click!

Daniel sighed and had a sip of coffee. He couldn’t blame Mr. Waite for being so angry. It was Daniel’s fault the threesome had snuck out of town. Daniel had been in the hotel when they’d disappeared. To make matters worse, he hadn’t even realized what was going on until it was too late.

This was not very good business for a career-minded young man who considered himself on the ball and several rungs up the ladder to success.

Daniel had been on his own since he’d graduated from Rollins College ten years earlier and moved out of his parents’ comfortable ranch home. He’d supported himself quite well with his own web designing business and hadn’t relied on his rich father for help. He’d been around the block a few times and seen all sorts of things. The people he’d dealt with weren’t always nice, honest or respectable. But that was no shock; he knew how cruel people could be. He also knew that when you dealt with people, you should be prepared for all sorts of surprises.

Mortal people, that is.

Mr. Waite wasn’t mortal. He was a super demon and had come to the mortal world straight from Hell to rule for the next hundred years. He’d been up here just a few months, and in that brief period of time, had made some interesting changes. Since his arrival, the prostitution and drug industries here in Central Florida--as well as neighboring states and those connected to the pipeline running from Mexico and South America--had seen a substantial jump in weekly revenues. Profits from illegal immigration had skyrocketed. Sales from firearms and explosives had gone through the roof. Most significantly, mass murder, serial killings and every other conceivable type of violent crime had come back into the limelight.

Mr. Waite had been busy and was an expert at his game.

Daniel couldn’t complain. Mr. Waite had set him up in the escort industry, and Daniel had been earning more than ten thousand dollars a day ever since. This was great money, especially considering how little work he actually did. He came in at nine in the morning, joined in on two or three conference calls, and kept an eye on laptop activity. His main function was monitoring the girls’ schedules to make sure the appropriate escort was available at the appropriate time. He enjoyed an expensive two-hour lunch, came back in for about an hour and then drove home. He was on-call the rest of the evening, but whenever there was a problem, he merely referred it to one of three other people in charge of the escorts.

Not bad at all.

Except, of course, when Mr. Waite had a major problem.

In this case, Daniel couldn’t blame the big man for being upset. Ashley, Tiffany, and Chip had slipped right out from under Daniel’s nose, destroying Mr. Waite’s major land deal and embarrassing him in front of his associates.

Daniel faced a bright future with Mr. Waite and didn’t want to face it dead. Or as a shit-smear. He knew he could fix this problem. He also knew the solution was probably a simple one. No one could just disappear.

But somehow, they had. They had slipped out of the hotel and vanished. And Mr. Waite had been angrier and ten times more frightening than Daniel had ever seen him before.

Daniel had personally seen the demon in action. Mr. Waite loved explosions and lived to blow up things. Just hours after they’d first met, Mr. Waite had blown up a shiny new BMW in downtown Orlando. While having a quiet lunch with Daniel and his father, Mr. Waite glanced at the restaurant window facing the street. In the next instant, a loud, dazzling explosion turned the block into a smoldering battlefield.

Only days later, Mr. Waite forced a law-biding, God-fearing businessman to rush to a hardware store, purchase chemicals and insecticides and then drive to the nearest church and burn it down.

Not long after that, Mr. Waite turned two guys he’d been looking for into steaming turds before sending them straight to Hell.

For the last two weeks, Daniel had been struggling for a solution to their present problem. He’d even considered using a detective agency to hunt down the threesome, but quickly realized the folly of that decision. He’d be required to furnish names, addresses, occupations and detailed descriptions. Social Security numbers, if possible. Credit card information. Next of kin. Car tags. Registrations.

First names and vague descriptions just wouldn’t cut it. He didn’t even know if the redheaded Chip was male or female. And it wouldn’t help one bit to mention that two of the three people they were looking for were already dead.

But they must be found. They soured a deal worth billions to Mr. Waite. The Arabs purchasing the land had planned to stay the weekend, look over the land, sign the papers and take their private plane back home on the third day. During their stay, they were promised entertainment. Because of scheduling conflicts, the assigned escorts hadn’t been available, and Daniel was ordered by Mr. Waite to drive Tiffany, Ashley and Chip to the Village Resort Hotel, where they would then be taken to the dignitaries’ rooms.

But something happened to sour the deal, bringing about an abrupt end to the visit. The four billionaires left their luxurious suite without notice and flew back home immediately.

Daniel blamed himself for the fiasco. He was determined to fix this, one way or the other. When he left the office that afternoon, he finally let his logical reasoning take over and, in no time, knew what had to be done.

Ashley Parker was the key to this puzzle.

Daniel had met Ashley several weeks earlier, at the O-Town Café, where Daniel, his father, and Mr. Waite had gone for lunch. Ashley had worked there as a waitress and was assigned to their table. Daniel liked her long black hair, her pleasant air and the way she smiled, and was deeply embarrassed by the abrupt manner in which Mr. Waite had treated her during their meal. Daniel obtained her home phone number later that same day from her boss. He called her that evening, took her out to dinner soon after, and discovered how much he liked her and enjoyed her company.

He hadn’t known at the time that getting involved with a girl like Ashley would not be wise. Ashley wasn’t from Daniel’s neighborhood and would not fit in with his new life. His parents wouldn’t accept her. Ashley’s alcoholic mother would be a horrible embarrassment to the Grove family.

Daniel hadn’t been aware of all this until Mr. Waite had brought it to his attention during dinner one evening. Mr. Waite, an expert at manipulation, knew how to persuade someone to come around to his way of thinking.

It had taken only a few seconds for Mr. Waite to adjust Daniel’s attitude using a simple mind-scan technique. Daniel had no memory of what had actually happened, just that he suddenly felt totally different and no longer had any desire to date Ashley.

Daniel felt foolish and angry about his former way of thinking. He knew right then that with this new positive outlook, he would soon become a successful, savvy businessman. And no one could stop him.

Since that night, Daniel had no further trouble analyzing things and no longer clung to the same foolish values that had previously held him back.

From that moment on, his analytical mind would automatically step in to handle every given situation. He found that he no longer experienced confusion, and instinctively knew what he wanted. When he entered a restaurant, he routinely rattled off his order as if he’d studied it for hours. When he awoke in the morning, he knew what he wanted for breakfast and what he would wear. When he plopped down on the couch in front of the widescreen in the evening, he no longer had to waste time channel-surfing. He knew what he wanted to watch.

And in this particular case, Daniel knew exactly where to start looking.

After work, he drove to his comfortable Winter Park condo. He shrugged out of his custom-tailored clothes, fixed supper, stepped into the shower and took a short nap on the living room sofa.

At half past midnight, he got up and put on something casual. He got into the Vette and headed to Orlando, to the area just a few blocks down from Huey Avenue, where the Parker home sat in disheveled misery on a small lot fronted by overgrown grass and surrounded by neglected hedges.

Ashley’s mother worked at the Fly Trappe on Michigan, but Daniel didn’t want to go there. For one thing, he didn’t want to leave his prized Vette unattended in that neighborhood. For another, he’d dealt with Lynn Parker on two previous occasions and knew what to expect. He suspected she’d have him thrown out of the bar if he tried approaching her there.

He relaxed in the Vette, which he’d parked two spaces down from her driveway. Then let his favorite R&B CDs relax him and soften his mood.

At around two-thirty, he drifted off.

He was awakened when Lynn Parker’s Toyota pulled up the drive, followed by a Dodge Ram pickup. Parker had brought home another drunken companion. She was obviously drunk herself, her mousey-brown hair unkempt, the two top buttons of her sleeveless black crepe blouse undone, showing off her laced bra. She carried her handbag over her shoulder and her black spikes in her left hand, padding barefooted on the cracked pavement, toward the house.

Just as she was about to unlock the front door, she turned and saw Daniel coming up the walk. She groaned, her face wrinkling. Her date simply squinted at him. In a loud, shrilly voice, she yelled, Get lost! Then spun around and scrambled to get the key in the lock. She dropped her shoes in the process but pushed the door open. She snatched up her shoes, grabbed her date by his necktie, dragged him inside and slammed the door.

With an exasperated sigh, Daniel cast the anger aside. No need for anger in this case. All he had to do was take a breath and calmly let his logical reasoning serve as his guide. This task was simple, and shouldn’t take more than thirty seconds, tops.

His pulse hastened as he moved closer to the door. Taking another deep breath, he pressed his index finger to the doorbell and held it there, until the door finally yanked open. Parker stood there, glaring, her wide-open blouse showing off her bra, protruding clavicle and soft paunch. She held a drink in her hand. The fierce expression in her glazed eyes made him flinch.

All I need to know is--

She tossed her drink at him. Fuck yourself and never come back! The shrillness in her voice made his ears ring.

The door slammed in his face.

Daniel stood there nearly ten minutes, looking down at his wet clothes and shoes, and the scattered dark stains on the concrete stoop at his feet. His silk shirt had cost him a hundred bucks, his jacket five hundred. Luckily, the suede slip-ons only went for eighty-five.

But none of that mattered. He was Daniel Grove. Just thirty years old, he was earning ten thousand bucks a day. He made more money in one hour than this worthless bitch earned in a month.

And she’d slammed the door in his face. Again!

He wanted to kick it down, stomp inside and strangle her.

After taking a few more deep breaths, the rage subsided. His fists remained clenched as he turned on his heel and trudged back to the Vette.

His one and only lead had failed. He knew where Ashley’s mother lived but was still unable to locate Ashley or her friends.

He was going to have to think of something else. Mr. Waite would not remain patient much longer.

DAY TWO

The Visitor from Chicago

Chapter 2

Braithwaite, known in the mortal world as Brett Waite, CEO and founder of Waite Business Diversities & Consultations, sat at his desk, waiting for Adele to buzz him and tell him his visitor had arrived.

The desk clock digital said 10:05. Tired of waiting for results from the Grove kid concerning the missing threesome, Braithwaite had called the Chicago Diocese yesterday afternoon and was informed that one of their key representatives was presently available and would fly to Orlando early the next day.

Braithwaite had wanted to use someone local for this matter, but his usual contacts weren’t available. Dortmunder, his main subordinate, was busy running drugs through their new pipeline. Braithwaite presently employed several prospects supervising the distribution of assault weapons to the Taliban in Syria and Afghanistan, but none knew the right type of person for this sort of venture. Braithwaite didn’t want to take time out of his hectic schedule to ask the League of Demons to get together in the Castle down below to select someone. The League always took forever to gather everyone together. Besides, demons all tended to suffer from ADD and were cooperative only when it suited their own purposes.

According to Chicago, the man named Andras was made to order for this type of job. Formerly one of Al Capone’s busiest triggermen, Andras had been responsible for more than sixty contract hits, most of them politically sanctioned. Due to a quirk of fate, Andras had died at the hands of an overzealous cop just days after the St. Valentine’s Day massacre but returned in the early sixties at Balberith’s request to fulfill several high-profile jobs sanctioned by organized crime.

Braithwaite had seen Andras briefly outside the Castle of Demons a couple of centuries earlier. Andras’ spiritual form was that of a winged angel with the head of a raven, suggesting superior hunting instincts. Andras possessed the remarkable ability to infect humans with uncontrollable rage, thus inciting the massacre, as well as many brawls, and much of the street fighting resulting from the Peace Movement during the mid-sixties. Braithwaite felt Andras more than qualified to complete this job. The fact that Andras had remained in Chicago all these years at Balberith’s insistence spoke volumes.

According to what Braithwaite was recently told, Andras had been extremely busy in the political arena. Due to his influence, modern corruption and graft had plagued Chicago just as it had during the Capone years, spreading like wildfire to many parts of the country, especially Capitol Hill.

Braithwaite didn’t want the Grove kid agonizing unnecessarily over this present dilemma. He wanted the kid to concentrate on his job as Manager for their thriving escort industry. Though Braithwaite was steamed over the fiasco, he realized the kid was only partially responsible. The Arabs had demanded the kid keep his distance once the escorts had been delivered. He couldn’t keep a tight handle on the situation if he wasn’t allowed to stay close.

It was time to push the blame to the side. The threesome had to be found. Braithwaite’s reputation was at stake. He couldn’t let any inferior slip away and get away with it. Because of their actions, his plans had to be shelved. Possibly for weeks. The threesome had also embarrassed his foreign friends. Braithwaite still couldn’t get them on the phone to discuss what happened. Several international calls to Aghali, his associate in Saudi, had accomplished nothing. According to Aghali, the Arabs did not wish to discuss the matter.

Braithwaite glanced once again at the desk clock. 10:11. He sighed. A watched pot never boiled. Andras would show. He just had to be patient.

His rage suddenly flared. Patient, my ass. Some colorful fireworks might relieve some of this stress.

Braithwaite raised his three hundred and fifty pounds from his comfortable chair and lumbered over to the window. The sidewalks, as always, were crowded. Local idiots as well as the usual clueless tourists crossed leisurely at the intersection. It would be amusing if one or two vehicles suddenly developed brake trouble.

He closed his eyes. Just as he was about to focus, he suddenly felt another presence in the room. He opened his eyes and turned.

A man stood in front of the door in a dark suit, light-gray tie and tan loafers. His arms were crossed in front of him. A look of mild curiosity covered his dark features.

Braithwaite felt a little uncomfortable about the silent intrusion. It was no easy accomplishment to surprise a demon as powerful as Braithwaite. This stranger had not only slipped into the room undetected, he looked like he’d been standing there quite a while. Braithwaite was impressed, but at the same time mildly agitated.

Andras?

A nod.

How’d you get past my secretary?

If you don’t mind, I’d rather not give away my trade secrets.

Braithwaite watched him for a few moments. Good thing he needed this man’s help. Otherwise, Braithwaite would have already pureed the man’s brains onto the carpet. I’ll let you off the hook for that, since I obviously need someone of your skills.

I wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Your powers are well-known. I’m not ready to be sent back down to the Valley.

Braithwaite held back a grin. Andras had savvy. They were off to a flying start. Have a seat.

Andras sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk. Braithwaite figured him at around six feet and a trim one-sixty-five. He looked like someone you’d expect to see managing a bank or selling insurance. Average features--certainly no one you’d remember. Simply put, Andras blended in. Another plus.

Braithwaite rested his elbows on the desk blotter. I might have seen you before, down below. The spirit form of the raven, correct?

Yes. I’m a hunter.

No wonder you’re good at being invisible.

You can’t be a good hunter unless you’re invisible when you have to be.

Braithwaite had been told a few things about Andras’ hunting background that sounded damned impressive. Chicago told me about one of your accomplishments.

Such as?

Braithwaite grinned. 1963, to be precise.

Andras nodded. Thanksgiving weekend.

A very bleak one, as I recall.

For the mortals, it was pretty bad.

Balberith selected you personally?

He told me that an additional shooter was needed that weekend in Dallas. Someone who could achieve total anonymity would be most suitable. In other words, someone nobody would ever notice.

I was down below at the time, but we all heard about it. As brilliant a plan as any I’d ever heard of.

It was merely a matter of finding the right place to hide at the right time.

How long have you been in Chicago?

Since I left Dallas.

You were in Chicago when the Diocese took in Capone and his staff. This was, I believe, in the early twenties.

Balberith ordered me back there. He understood how well I manipulate politicians. Capone proved to be a powerful political magnet.

Braithwaite pulled a cigar from his gold case. He offered one to Andras, who declined. Scents leave trails. People remember scents.

Braithwaite nodded. Andras really was a pro. I take it that you’re at least partially responsible for the political mess in Chicago that’s been rampant in the last couple of decades?

Chicago has been a hotbed of corruption and graft the last hundred years or so. Balberith wanted me to stick around to make sure things stay that way. It’s not much of a challenge anymore. Mortals have become infinitely more corruptible since the computer age started.

Braithwaite sat back and pushed a thick gray plume toward the ceiling fan. I take it you’ve done a lot of missing persons cases before, then?

Dozens. I’m a hunter, after all. But since I’ve been so busy in other areas during the last fifty years, I haven’t chased down anyone in quite a while.

What were you told about this job?

I was called in yesterday by a couple of associates in Cicero. They told me you needed someone for quick detective work.

Braithwaite told him what had happened at the Village Resort.

When Braithwaite finished, Andras said, No wonder you want them found. Training camps are big business nowadays. The wave of the future in this country.

As of this moment, there are thirty-five training camps in fifteen states and the numbers are increasing rapidly. When I came up just a few months ago, there were less than a dozen. I’d like to have more than a hundred in full operation by the end of the year. Two in each state would make me very happy.

I’ve heard of the big one in the Catskills. Southeast of Binghamton, New York.

That’s their educational camp in Hancock. It sits on seventy acres in the mountains.

From what I’ve heard, it’s impressive. And what with the growing number of Survivalists, neo-Nazis, certified nutcases and street gangs, the Feds have their hands full. Unless I’m mistaken, there aren’t many camps here in Florida. Not big ones, anyway. Is this why you’re pushing so hard for one?

The one I was about to get started is sitting on a fifty-thousand-acre parcel in Central Florida, which would make the one in the Catskills look like a bubblegum operation.

Andras nodded. "Fifty thousand acres. That is big."

Its location would enable it to handle weekly shipments for drugs, arms, the slave trade, and other related supplies. We’re talking a multi-billion-dollar operation, and when you add in collateral costs—disaster relief, reconstruction, insurance payouts from lawsuits and loss of life—this is big-time. If we’re lucky, a war could come out of all this.

Are you still working on the deal?

I can’t seem to get any cooperation from those damned Arabs. The three idiots I’m looking for must have put a hex on them. I don’t know how, but something screwy’s going on. There’s only one sure way to find out.

I take it you’re offering a bounty.

"I