Leviathan: An Event Group Thriller

by David L. Golemon

  It took him more than thirty minutes and five bloody fingers, but in the end the torch finally smoldered, then caught and flared to life. As he averted his eyes from the brightness of the flame, he saw the skeletal leg in the sand. He stepped back, brought the flame closer, and followed the leg upward. There, lying against the wall, were the remains of a man. He was tied by rope and spike to the very wall where Deveroux had found the torch. The clothing on the skeleton was old and falling apart. The corpse had several gold teeth, and even more were missing. However, there was one feature that made Deveroux look around nervously. This was the fact that this man had been slashed through the head by a sword, shattering the front of the skull. As Deveroux held the torch closer, he could see that the sword had smashed everything from the skullcap through the nasal cavity.

  He shook his head and stepped back nervously. The remains had to be more than a hundred years old, in his estimation. The bloused pants, tattered vest, and red shirt made the skeleton look as if he had been a Gypsy, like the flotsam he had seen in the streets of Paris in the past. The bony fingers had rings upon each, even the thumb.

  Deveroux brought the torch around and looked farther into the cave. The body was sitting upon a small shelf that seemed to wrap around the large interior. The small cove that rose and fell with the tide was up at that time, so he moved cautiously along the wall, staying high above the water.

  He had traveled for what he estimated was a half mile into the bowels of the cave when he came to a huge gate. As he brought the torch to bear on the makeshift wall, he screeched a hoarse bark and stepped back as he saw two more bodies. These were not like the first, which had been tied to the wall and executed. These two skeletons were lying beneath the sharpened points of the bottom of the wall, which was imbedded in the men’s torsos, crushing their ribs and spines.

  As Deveroux examined the trap, he could see that the wooden device at one time had been placed into a separation in the cave’s natural ceiling. These men had somehow triggered the pitfall, and been impaled by the sharpened base of the wall as it crashed down upon them. Deveroux grimaced at the horrible specter before him. The men were dressed as the first man had been. Jewelry of every kind adorned the skeletons. The one major difference—these men had been armed. One still grasped the sword he had more than likely used against the defenseless man Deveroux had discovered tied to the cave wall.

  Deveroux examined the wooden trap and surmised it would harm no other. He gently pushed on the gate. It creaked and bent, but held firm. With eyes wild, he knew he had to find out what was so important about the rear of the cave that men would be driven to create such horrible deaths for their fellows.

  He looked around him, and using the torch for light he leaned down and pulled upon the sword entwined in the skeleton’s bony grasp, then cringed when three of the dead man’s fingers came off with his effort. He looked at the skeleton and watched its long dead and empty eye sockets for a brief moment. Then he raised the sword, and while still looking at the dead man, slashed at the wood with a weakened blow. The sword severed the rotten rope where it crossed another of the old wooden beams. The wood creaked, and then Deveroux fell to the sand as his muscles began to cramp with just one swing of the heavy sword. Deveroux cried out in pain as he went to his knees, trying to get the cramp to cease its hold, and then he suddenly stopped and looked around as if he were being watched. With his right arm throbbing, he swung the torch in his left hand to and fro, searching for the set of eyes that he knew to be there. He saw nothing but the darkness. He was the only witness to his transgression.

  He switched the torch to his right hand, and with tears of pain he swung the sword once more, severing another rope, and then he yelled out in fear when the crossbeam fell from the gate and almost crushed him. He saw one beam fall, and then another, until a small avalanche fell free, the remaining ropes not able to withstand the weight. They fell, crushing the remains of the two lost souls trapped years before. When the dust cleared and Deveroux stopped shaking from fright, he saw the gate had succumbed to his minuscule efforts, thanks in most part to the rotted rope holding it together.

  He rose from the damp earth, and on shaking legs stepped through the opening and easily swung the torch forward. He couldn’t make anything out at first, but then he saw the stacked items along the wall. Three hundred large and small chests. Some made of wood, others of iron. Some were locked while others had come apart with age and water damage.

  He approached one that had broken open and held the flame close to the spilled items. There, twinkling in the bright flame, were what he assumed were diamonds. A thousand pigeon-egg-sized pieces of glittering and sparkling stone that had been torn from the earth, possibly centuries before.

  Deveroux swung the torch back and looked at the two skeletons. He examined their clothing again and thought, pirates! Buccaneers, free seamen. He had found what these men had hidden, and had obviously been murdered for.

  He turned and examined more of the chests. Gold from Syria, Babylon, and Arabia, and diamonds from Africa. Arabic coins stamped with artisans’ renderings of faces that were hundreds of years old. He held the torch against a lock that still sealed one of the large chests and saw the seal of England—the head of the lion and the three crowns of Richard I.

  Deveroux fell to his knees, lowered the torch, and crossed himself. The rumors were true. He had found what was lost more than six hundred years before: the legendary lost treasure of the Crusades. Gold, diamonds, and other riches ripped and stolen from the Holy Land. King Richard was rumored to have invaded Jerusalem for the sole reason of pillaging, not its liberation. The king died soon after his return home and his treasure was lost, or hidden away from his own countrymen, later to be discovered by this marauding band of cutthroats.

  Deveroux saw in the treasure the route and means to his revenge against Napoleon. By his quick estimation, and not figuring in monetary terms of pound, shekel, or carat, he calculated that he had found over fifteen tons of riches. Billions upon billions of francs’ worth of diamonds and emeralds alone. The gold was incalculable.

  He cried at seeing the redemption that lay before him. He would exact the revenge he had coming to his soul for the death of a wife and the murder of his father.

  He would then use this wealth to continue the work he had started. He would make the world a better place and in the end he would challenge humankind not to need the very avarice that lay before him.

  As he turned to look back toward the cave’s opening, knowing the sun had set, he began planning. His brilliant mind was regaining its edge and complex thought was becoming easy once more. His thoughts were cutting through the detritus of a world that wanted what he had—command of the sea.

  In the fading light of the dying torch, there was movement in the water. With wild and insane eyes Deveroux believed his horrid memories of the past years were returning in the form of men to reclaim his soul. As he slowly slid to the softened sand, he saw for the first time the true magic, the real treasures of the sea—and they were beautiful.

  Deveroux stared at the magical creatures as they in turn watched him from below the crystal-clear waters of the cave. Gold, diamonds, and emeralds—they all paled in comparison to the miracle his eyes now beheld. Fantasy mixed with reality—biblical stories with that of fairy tales. It was there before him in the waters, legend, myth, and sea-tales. Reality and clarity of mind beckoned him. Then suddenly the clear-skinned, glowing, angellike mermaids were gone as if they had never been. The darkness, the sea breeze, and the sound of life slowly returned to his ears as a plan began to form for revenge and a reason to live once more.

  Now he would claim the sea as his own.

  UNIVERSITY OF OSLO, NORWAY, 1829

  The old professor leaned closer to the makeshift gauge. The needle hovered at the 98 percent mark. He noted this fact in his journal and then looked up and tapped the gauge once more, making the needle jump minutely, only to settle back into the same position as before. He
smiled. After twenty-seven hours, the electrical charge remained high.

  He laid his pen inside the journal and closed it. He stretched and as he did, he saw his young son, twelve-year-old Octavian, lying peacefully on the makeshift bed in the far corner of the laboratory. Professor Heirthall, the man once known as Roderick Deveroux, pulled out his pocket watch and saw it was nearly two thirty in the morning. He shook his head and then decided to check his connections one last time.

  Half of the large laboratory space was taken up with three hundred small, boxlike cubes. They were stacked on metal shelving that ran floor to ceiling. The mountain of material gave off deep shadows in the dim, gas-lantern-illuminated lab as the professor walked to the main cable connection and felt the insulation. He quickly removed his hand and then pulled out his journal. He checked the thermometer connected to the thick copper cable and then found the reading for his last entry. The cable’s temperature was up sixteen degrees from the last mark two hours ago. It was now reading 120 degrees. This was a problem. The thick cable was not going to hold up for the duration of the electrical charge. Either his cables needed to be thicker, which was not beneficial to his end goals, or he would have to find a way to keep the metal cooler inside the leather insulation.

  “Father, have you considered letting the sea cool your battery lines?”

  The professor turned to see his son sitting up on his cot. He was propped on one elbow and yawned as he looked at his father.

  “The sea? Do you mean run the cables outside of the enclosure?” he asked.

  The boy placed his feet on the floor and pulled the blanket around his shoulders as he stood and slowly shuffled to where his father was standing.

  “No, sir,” he said through a yawn. “I am aware that seawater would invade the coiled copper wire inside the insulation, and corrupt it. However, would it not cool if cocooned in rubber, the same material as your batteries and inside a metal guard, inches from the cooling waters of the sea?”

  “You mean as veins, like in a human arm, just under the surface?”

  In answer, the twelve-year-old yawned once more, nodding his head.

  “You must get your intelligence from your mother, for I am constantly overlooking the obvious,” he said as he tousl°ed the boy’s thick black hair. “You have a remarkable spark of intelligence bouncing around in that head of yours.”

  The admiration and love for his son was evident. The boy had been with him throughout the summer months, and was here with him now instead of enjoying his winter break for the Christmas holidays. Ever since the breakthrough in the spring, when his revolutionary electrical storage system began to show promise, the boy had been by his side, forsaking even the warmer company of his mother, Alexandria.

  The boy had only been ten years old when he had completed the final assembly of the combustion motor. Converted from a steam piston drive, the motor was also revolutionary and very, very secret. Still, even at that young age, Octavian had figured out that the pump used to relay fuel into the combustion chamber was inefficient, just by studying its operation. He had tinkered with his father’s design, and in three months, using only scrap parts, the boy had pieced together what he called a distilled kerosene-injection pump that utilized the motor itself for power. Kerosene derived from the recent discovery of crude oil from America. It had failed the first three times, and then when they had figured a way to filter the fine spray of kerosene, removing the impurities of the refined oil, it had not failed since.

  Professor Heirthall smiled at his son and then pulled his pocket watch out of his white coat once more and examined it.

  “Almost three A.M. Octavian; your mother is going to throw me into the fjord.”

  “Of all people, Mother knows you get lost in your work. She will be fine and fast asleep.”

  “Yes, I suspect so, but nevertheless I will call the carriage and have you taken home.”

  “Father, my time is wasted at home. Mother only talks of what a great man I will one day be.”

  The professor replaced his journal and smiled.

  “The part of her that needs it will never feel the spray or touch of the sea again. This is a sad fact to her, son. Your mother, well—part of her is a very special woman, from very, very special people. And because they were special, and are still so, we have this,” he said as he gestured around the laboratory. “All this is for them. We are dedicated to the sea, Octavian—it is in your blood, quite literally. Without that special part of her, your mother would have died a very long time ago.”

  The boy had ceased listening and was instead standing in front of the mountain of black rubber-encased batteries. He pulled the blanket around him tighter and was lost in his own world.

  “Are you dreaming your underwater dreams again, Octavian?”

  The boy turned toward his father and smiled, embarrassed.

  “Is the story true—I mean, what people are saying about you?”

  Heirthall was taken back by the sudden change in topic.

  “You mean my magical escapades upon the sea, and of being a prisoner of Napoleon? Yes, it is all true. As for the treasure of King Richard—no, I’m afraid our wealth is derived from a long line of inheritance. Nothing as dashing and daring, I would think, as the rumors from France or other tall tales told in other countries.”

  Heirthall knew he wasn’t fooling Octavian. The boy was just too smart for his own good. Not once did he ask about portraits of family heritage from either side—even though he knew other families of wealth had them. Yes, the boy knew the stories were true, but he had yet to guess the real secret of the Heirthall family. That would take a delicate touch.

  Deveroux had met Alexandria after his escape and revenge upon Napoleon. She had been young, vital, and loving toward him at the first moment of meeting. Then, after the birth of Octavian, she had become weak and bedridden. Consumption, the doctors had told him. Only the intervention of the Deveroux angels had kept her alive all of these years. Now, even their grace from death was ending. The solution to her health was now her killer. He now feared Octavian—their precious offspring—might be cursed to the same fate as his mother. He was physically weak, and his blood held too much of his mother’s.

  The sound of loud footfalls, possibly that of several men, came through the thick double doors. The professor held his index finger to his lips to make sure Octavian quieted. Then he hurriedly took his son by the shoulders and pushed him toward the cot. He wrapped him tighter in the blanket, shoved him to the floor, and looked deeply into Octavian’s deep and beautiful blue eyes.

  “You stay under here and come out for no reason, am I clear, my son?”

  “Father, who could these men be?”

  “I don’t know, but I have noticed strangers around the university, and several have been following me the past two months. Now, Octavian, answer me, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.” The boy looked up into Heirthall’s tired features. “I can be of help.”

  “I know you could, but sometimes you must know when to use silence as an ally, not strength. Understand me, son, stay under the cot.”

  The boy nodded.

  With his answer, Heirthall helped the boy slide under the cot until he could go no farther. Then he stood and faced the double doors. The hallway beyond the framed window was dark, but he could still see moving shadows there. A loud knock sounded.

  “Professor Heirthall, this is Dr. Hansonn. May I come in?”

  Heirthall walked to the door, started to reach for the handle, and then stopped short.

  “Why would the dean of biology be here at this hour, Doctor?” he called through the thick wood. “And why is he accompanied by others?”

  “I have a friend that wishes to speak to you.”

  “My work is not for examination by anyone, including you. Now please take your friends and go away, I wish to—”

  “Professor Heirthall, I assure you, this is not about your fanciful dream of underwater vessels—it’s about your f
ossil.”

  “The fossil has been lost since the last time you inquired about it. I see no reason—”

  The doors split apart and crashed inward. Two very large men quickly entered, followed by three more. Dr. Hansonn was there, and standing beside him was a man that Heirthall recognized immediately.

  “Why have you brought this profiteer of history to my laboratory?”

  The rotund man removed his top hat and pushed by the Norwegian biology dean.

  “I will be happy to answer that,” the man said as he handed his hat to the larger of the two men. “Professor, we care not for your dreams of underwater fantasies, sir; we have come to buy the fossil from you. I am willing to pay handsomely for it, I assure you.”

  “You have already decried it a hoax. Why would you want it if no one believes it’s real?”

  The man turned and took a few steps away, deep in thought; he held his right hand to his lips. “I have to have it, Professor. Not for any public display, I have plenty of tomfoolery to enthrall the public. The unique specimen in your possession is for me alone—to amaze myself as to the wondrous nature of our world. I will not harm it or display it, only love it.”

  “Again, Mr. Barnum, I have lost the specimen. Now please take your men and get out.”

  Heirthall watched P. T. Barnum as the man deflated.