Ralston hopped in the car. He and Fawn surveyed the open ground ahead and the street in the distance. While several folks in the field were standing, giving them inquisitive stares, for the moment they had attracted far less attention than they expected given that they had driven on protected national monument property.
Ralston spoke anxiously. “One of three things will happen: either the bar’s going to pull free, it’s not, or we’re going to tear your car apart.”
Fawn didn’t respond. She punched the accelerator, and for a moment the wheels ripped the ground underneath, spinning in place. When they finally gained traction, the car lurched, bouncing harshly across the grass.
Ralston turned to watch. The moving vehicle took up the loose chain in an instant. It stretched taunt, angling to the high storeroom window.
Then a fourth thing occurred that they had not considered. The car jerked, and there was a sharp crack.
“Chain broke! Stop!” Ralston yelled.
Fawn hit the brakes, and Ralston raced from the car. “What are you doing?” she screamed. She turned to see dreadlocks flopping as the Jamaican disappeared into the moat.
Spectators were gathering along the wall of the gun deck, looking down at Fawn’s car and then at the moat. They were pointing. Fawn saw a park ranger lean over to the side, yell something, and disappear from view.
She opened her car door and ran to the moat, where she spotted Ralston pulling himself up to the edge. He flopped onto the grass. There was something in his hand.
An iron bar.
Fawn looked up at the window and saw only one bar remaining.
“In the car!” Ralston shouted. Fawn turned and ran at a full gallop.
Behind, someone yelled, “Stop where you are!” She turned to see three rangers circling the southwest corner of the moat in a full sprint, heading for the car. Ralston had fallen behind her; he was limping badly.
She quickly reached the idling car, but it was a race to see who would arrive next: Ralston or the park rangers.
With the engine running, Fawn waited the agonizing seconds for Ralston to reach the car and dive into the front seat. As the rangers approached, she smashed the accelerator, hurling grass and dirt into their faces. She drove off, bounding through the field, chain dragging behind her. In the rearview mirror, she saw one ranger raising a microphone to his mouth. Another ranger tried fruitlessly to grab the end of the forty-foot section of chain now trailing behind them.
Fawn jumped the curb, slamming onto the pavement. She cut the wheel hard, tires screeching, heading north on San Marco Boulevard. She slowed only when the fort was no longer visible. With luck, they would blend in with the other motorists leisurely making their way through the city, save for the chain they were dragging.
At the first opportunity, she turned down a side street and parked. Ralston opened his door and limped to the back of the car. He quickly removed the chain and re-affixed the license plate. Knowing the rangers could only report a tagless car would work to their benefit, as they had planned.
Fawn was frazzled. She smoothed her hair down. “What happened back there?”
Ralston spoke, “When the chain broke, there was still enough force to pull the bar loose. I saw it fall from the window. That’s why I ran back to the moat.” He gave his left knee a rub.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I just slammed it into the side of the moat.”
In Ralston’s rush to get back inside the car, the iron bar had fallen to the floorboard. He picked it up, eyed one end, then the other. A smile cascaded over his face. “It’s hollow inside.”
“Is it there?” Fawn asked, anxiously.
Ralston turned the end of the iron bar toward her. Embedded inside, she could make out the distinctive head of a key, and the upside down letters, JS.
The relief was instantaneous. She closed her eyes and momentarily leaned back on the headrest.
It only took Ralston a few minutes to free the key from the end of the iron bar. In retrospect, they realized they were fortunate it had not come loose during the fall into the moat.
Ralston went to place the iron rod back on the floorboard when a discolored object dropped from the end where the key had been removed. He leaned forward, then straightened, holding a brown lump secured by a tiny, drawn string.
Fawn and Ralston looked at each other then to the object.
“Undo the string,” Fawn said.
Ralston carefully untied the string and unraveled the brown cloth. It was made from heavy fibers, possibly burlap. It had writing upon it in dark, thick letters:
Hat, kee tat, a, ra, ra a-woler yung, ta, tez ue
Fawn did not hesitate. She picked up her cell phone and dialed, ready for another conversation with Dr. Curt Lohan; another mystery to crack. Again, she promised to enlighten him as to all of their activities in the near future. He was less than enamored, but nonetheless he agreed to help.
She informed him that the words were most likely of Seminole Indian origin.
Curt replied. “The Seminole language was entirely verbal. They never wrote anything down, so I’m assuming this is a phonetic spelling of the oral language. It will be an easy translation once I find the proper source.” He promised to call the moment he had something. Fawn thanked him again for his help.
After hanging up, she pulled the EK key from her pocket, the one from the Amelia Island Lighthouse. She handed it to Ralston for comparison with the JS key.
He held the two keys side by side. They were nearly identical except for a slight variation in the teeth pattern.
“Now what?” Ralston asked.
“Now I take you home. You’ve done more than I could have ever asked, Ralston. I’ll always be in your debt.”
“What about the ransom demand?”
“That’s for me to deal with.”
“Fawn, you can’t do this alone. The man is probably the killer. Like you said, that’s the only way he’d have Lisa Fortney’s phone. And then there’s Mike…”
“This doesn’t involve you.”
“The hell it doesn’t! You’re my friend. I’m not leaving you.”
Fawn saw the brazen determination in the young man’s eyes. She would have to be resolute. “Ralston, there’s no way—”
Her cell phone rang. Fawn looked at the display, feeling a chill as Lisa Fortney’s name appeared again. “It’s him,” she managed weakly.
She answered.
“Go to the Alpine Groves Park at the northern end of St. Johns County at noon. Walk to the house at the rear of the park. Bring the keys and the information about how to use them. Come alone.” Then the phone went dead.
Fawn looked at her watch: 11:24.
Now, she had no choice. There was not enough time to take Ralston back to Fernandina and return to Jacksonville. As it was, she would have to drive like a maniac to reach the park before noon.
CHAPTER 42
“You take the car,” Fawn said, pulling over to the shoulder at the park entrance. It was 11:57. She had blurred the roads and been fortunate to avoid police on the drive from St. Augustine.
“Fawn, you’re dealing with a psychopathic killer. You can’t face him alone.”
“I have no choice, and neither do you.” Before Ralston could object further, Fawn reached in the backseat, grabbed her purse, and left the car. Mike’s pistol was tucked inside. She had purposely not told Ralston about the weapon. Plausible deniability might lessen any charges he would have faced as her accomplice.
She walked to the entrance where the asphalt drive looped past a long, aged structure.
She patted her pocket to ensure she had both keys.
The 54.5-acre wooded park stretched from State Road 13 to the St. Johns River. It was once the site of an old orange grove and featured a circa 1900s home, processing facility, and storage barn.
Fawn walked past the parking area and around the grove-themed kiddie playground, continuing onto a wooden walkway. Beyond, the walkway connected to a paved trail that meandered into the woods.
She took the winding trail that carried over wetlands and undulating terrain, taking stock of what lay ahead and frequently turning to make sure no one was following.
It was a warm September day, but the canopy of hardwood trees provided generous shading. Fawn became acutely aware the ground was elevating as she went, and she felt her leg muscles tighten in protest.
While there had been plenty of people back at the play set area, the paved walkway yielded few patrons. Soon the woods broke before her, and she came upon a worn, two-story house. Behind, was an open field before the wire-fenced bluff overlooking the St. Johns River.
Fawn looked at the grizzled old structure with its broken windows, tattered wood siding, and rotted window frames. A chain-link fence formed a tight concentric circle around the house. It was being prepared to undergo restoration.
Fawn was about to continue past when she noticed a piece of paper affixed to the door. She walked to the side of the house and found a section of temporary fence where a supporting pole had fallen and the fence bowed inward. Seeing no one around, Fawn stepped on the fence, pressing it to the ground, and continued over.
Inside the perimeter, she walked to the front door, keeping a watchful eye. The paper was folded in half and held with a thumbtack. It read “F.C.”
Fawn felt her pulse quicken.
She removed the tack, unfolded the paper.
Ms. Cortez. Proceed to the park’s rear fence and go over. At the bank is a boat. The key is under the seat cushion. Take the boat south. Do not bring your cell phone.
There was no mention of what to do after she turned the boat south. Surely there was more. She scanned the ground to see if any pages had fallen but found none.
Fawn reached inside her purse and removed her cell phone. She stepped away from the door and noticed two teenage girls along the sidewalk. They gave her an inquisitive glance, giggled, and continued past.
Nervous that she was drawing attention, Fawn walked to the side of the house and turned off her cell phone. She laid it on a cinder block against the wall and covered it with a scrap of wood. The wood would hide it from view while keeping it somewhat protected from the natural elements.
Fawn made her way over the downed section of fence and returned to the sidewalk. She strolled nonchalantly around the house and proceeded to the open field where clusters of people were enjoying the warm afternoon on blankets, eating, or, in one case, tossing a football.
Fawn aimed for the wire fence that bordered the rear of the park. Beyond, the wide expanse of river spread in either direction coating the landscape with infinite shimmering glints. She was surprised to find a steep drop-off leading to the river beyond the fence. It was at least 15 feet down the escarpment to the wisp of a shoreline.
Below, an object to the right caught her attention. A small boat was partially beached against the embankment. It appeared precariously close to drifting away.
Fawn walked along the fence as inconspicuously as she could. Fortunately, others in the park paid her little attention.
She looked down. An unforgiving terrain awaited her. Practically a sheer drop, there were plants she hoped would afford her a handle. This was not going to be easy.
At that moment, she would have traded the gun for a good rope.
Fawn grabbed the nearest fence pole, steadied herself, and used the top wire to spring over. She was careful to keep her purse tucked tightly to her body. She eased to the other side, holding the top wire for support.
Fawn used her hands to walk down the four horizontal fence wires, trying to gain footing in the dirt embankment with no success. Holding onto the bottom wire, the palms of her hands stung. She tried repeatedly to gain purchase with her feet in the side of the embankment but succeeded only in sending dirt skittering down to the bank below.
“It’s now or never,” she told herself.
Fawn let go, using one hand to hold onto her purse while the other dragged the wall face, pulling dirt free as she slid. The toes of her tennis shoes bit into the embankment like talons. It was not graceful, but it was effective in slowing her slide, and she eventually reached the bottom in a hail storm of falling dirt and debris. Only as she stood mildly dazed, waiting for the loose dirt to finish raining down, did pain riddle the tips of her fingers. Most of her fingernails had broken and the cuticles flushed dark with dirt.
Fawn stood on the narrow shore, sinking in mud. The pain in her fingertips turned excruciating, but she did her best to block it out.
She trundled over to the boat, tossed her purse inside, and pushed off, climbing inside as the boat eased away from shore. The key was in the ignition. One turn and the boat started, spitting and choking, but holding idle.
Fawn’s father had owned many boats, and she was very familiar with their operation. This was an old vessel, 14 feet in length, probably built in the late 60s or early 70s, with a single outboard Mercury 75-horsepower motor, off-center console with aged fiberglass lining. The glove box, console, and inner siding were made of cracked and missing wood veneer. The windshield across the driver’s side had a spider-web crack growing from the lower left corner. There was a foul smell rising from the vinyl seat where a split in the fabric had allowed something fetid to seep in.
Fawn threw the engine in reverse. Clear of the beach, she gunned the motor forward, sending a rooster tail of spray behind. It may have been an old boat, but it had plenty of power and quickly planed.
Fawn followed the instructions, heading south on the St. Johns River. There was no wind and the water was flat.
Since the man—Terrence Courtland, Mike Roberson, or whoever had her father captive—had forced her to leave her cell phone behind, how was she supposed to know where to go?
Fawn ran south for several minutes then cut the motor to idle. In frustration, she looked to see if another boat was approaching. She was in the middle of the channel, and there was no one near.
“Where do I go!” she shouted in anger.
Fawn heard a faint sound. A constant cadence.
Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping…
It came from somewhere in the boat; somewhere beneath her. She stood, turned, and lifted the vinyl seat. The compartment within the seat contained a small device with a lit screen. She lifted it and closed the seat. It continued with a steady procession of pings.
The screen showed a map. Fawn recognized it as this section of the St. Johns River. Her vessel appeared as a green blip. Not far away, on the right bank, was a red blip. It was inside a small cut off the main river.
Fawn now understood her destination.
****
In St. Augustine, Dr. Curt Lohan held the Indian text as he picked up the phone to call Fawn Cortez.
Hat, kee tat, a, ra, ra a-woler yung, ta, tez ue
Compared to the other tasks she had requested, this had been a piece of cake. It was a matter of finding the proper translation from the verbal iteration. Although Seminole Indian translation was not as easy to locate as Curt had first thought it would be, he was a man fond of reference books. It was one of these books, not from the Internet, which had served his purpose.
He was curious as to what Fawn Cortez was doing. Curt had heard reports this morning of two separate incidents involving St. Augustine historical settings. The first was the disturbance of a grave in the old cemetery at the Mission of Nombre de Dios. At a burial site, coincidentally, where Indian remains were interred. The second was a daring, if not insane, act by a man and woman at the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument. Authorities still did not know the motive, but the couple had secured a chain to one of the iron bars in a storeroom window and extracted it by using a car.
This last event, in pa
rticular, had drawn Curt’s interest, given the description of the two perpetrators.
Still, even with the desperation in Fawn’s voice, Curt could not help but feel wary. He would provide this last bit of information, which seemed harmless enough, then refuse to assist any further unless she came clean with him. Frankly, the possibility of being part of criminal activity worried him. Even if he had once done minor damage to the castillo himself.
Curt dialed Fawn’s cell phone. It immediately went to messaging. He contemplated what to do next then got an idea to search through the other numbers on his caller ID.
****
It was a ten-minute boat ride to the opening of the cut on the west side of the St. Johns River, set in an isolated area of Clay County, between the cities of Orange Park to the north and Green Cove Springs to the south. The shoreline was ensconced in trees, and the cut was barely visible. Without the GPS tracking, Fawn would have passed by, never noticing the ingress within the wall of green.
She brought the boat about slowly, running through the shallows, careful of underwater debris prevalent along wooded shorelines. She passed through into the 30-foot-wide creek. It appeared to be a manmade, deep-water channel.
Guarded from the suffused sunlight bathing the river channel, here the water took on a murky shade, seeded by the reflection of the trees rising on either bank.
A short distance in, the trees gave way to a clearing on the left. On the GPS, her green blip was close to overtaking the stationary red blip. She looked warily ahead as she idled forward.
She grabbed her purse from underneath the console, withdrew the 9mm pistol, and slid the purse back out of sight. Staying low, she nestled the pistol inside her waistband behind her and pulled her tee shirt over it. Content it was concealed, she stood.
Ahead, the clearing led into a thicket of trees. Beyond, a dock came into view. The dock was weathered and missing planks. It paralleled the shore, following an austere wood-topped bulkhead. A worn, arched, aluminum roof covered the near end where a ladder stretched to the waterline six feet below. There was a second ladder at the far end where a rowboat was adrift, its stern brushing against the bulkhead.
Three Keys to Murder Page 31
