Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  It was the same pattern which filled the walls of the enclosure.

  The sound of approaching sirens grew louder.

  Curt looked down to see the extended right arm of the corpse.

  The middle finger was missing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Thursday, August 11, 9:54 p.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Chasey Knight leaned slightly forward with a hand pressed to the side of her head listening to the microphone embedded in her ear. As the lead investigator for the television show, Spook Pursuit, the curvaceous blonde was awaiting the go-ahead from the broadcasting station out of Detroit, Michigan. The lighting technician had been dawdling over the setup and equipment for the last 35 minutes outside of the Castillo de San Marcos, and now the intense light had Curt perspiring in the already muggy night air. He ran a hand through his short hair and flapped the collar of his dress shirt to allow some air in. It did little good.

  Curt noticed that, somehow, even in her customary gray jumpsuit with the cheesy SP logo, the forty-something Ms. Knight seemed unaffected by the heat. In three years doing the show, this would be the first live Spook Pursuit telecast, and she was obviously too distracted to perspire, not to mention the inconvenience and havoc it would wreak on her flawless makeup.

  The national monument directly behind them had closed to visitors at dusk. The gun deck above was basked in the glow of upturned lighting. The glacis where they stood was a bevy of activity as cast and crew scurried to get the shot just right. It was a clear night, and traffic from nearby San Marco Avenue had abated, leaving the streets all but empty. Apart from a few tourists who had noticed the cameras and bright lights and come over to investigate, the small cluster composed of production assistants, technicians, camera and boom operators, director, investigators, and interviewee stood alone on the soft, inclined grass.

  Curt had only agreed to do the interview upon Harvey Shottier’s insistence. The St. Augustine City Commission Manager had recently hired Curt for archaeological consultation work to the city. It was good money; something to which Curt was not accustomed. In fact, the contract was his livelihood at the moment. Shottier had used this client/employee leverage to force Curt’s hand into doing the interview, and Curt had reluctantly acquiesced. Shottier’s motive was obvious: more publicity for a city that survived on tourism.

  Curt knew the interview with Chasey Knight would be campy at best. He was familiar with Ms. Knight’s show. The content was directed at the fringe population most susceptible to believing in paranormal activity. Unlike the original paranormal investigative show, Ghost Hunters, which used quasi-scientific techniques, Knight disregarded protocol, looking more for the shock value in a story than concerning herself with factual details or objective findings. She was a master at the power of suggestion and could present even the most mundane dwelling as a haunted house by getting viewers to agree that filmed flecks of dust were ghost orbs and the sounds of settling wood were the ethereal callings of a suicide victim. Curt realized her focus during this interview was bound to be less on the discovery of the gunpowder magazine and its history, and more on the man who had emerged from it and the tragic deaths which occurred after the fact.

  Curt was anxious to get this over as quickly as possible. At least his interview was coming at the start of the live broadcast. He could leave as soon as it was over and would not have to endure the rest of the laughable investigation inside the Castillo. These so-called investigators gave PhDs and scientists a bad name.

  On cue, Knight flipped her heavily hair-sprayed blonde hair, took Curt’s arm, turned him to the camera, and raised the microphone to her chest. Off to the side, a monitor was ready to scroll scripted questions for her to read. Even though there had been ample time, Ms. Knight had elected not to share the questions with Curt in advance; another hint this was going to be interesting.

  Behind the blinding white lights, Curt heard a countdown: “We’re on in three, two…”

  “This is Chasey Knight, live outside the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine, Florida, for our first-ever live telecast,” the slender investigative reporter cooed into the camera. “Five weeks ago, a secret room—a gunpowder magazine—inside the 300-year-old Spanish fort was opened for the first time in centuries. To the shock of those in attendance, a man, who police are referring to as Subject X, ran out of the room, into the Castillo’s courtyard, and inflicted injuries to several park rangers and St. Johns County sheriff’s deputy, Miles Nasherton, before Nasherton was forced to shoot and kill the assailant. As of this date, the autopsy results have not been released, causing some locals to speculate about a cover-up. Who was the man? Was he a man? Or was he a trapped spirit; a soldier perhaps from one of the Spanish military regiments that served here? How did he come to be inside a room that had supposedly been sealed for hundreds of years? These are just some of the mysteries surrounding the room’s opening last month that we’re here to investigate.

  “And now, if the situation wasn’t already bizarre enough, two people in attendance at the ceremonial opening of the gunpowder magazine have met with accidental deaths. First, there was archaeologist Bernice Fine, who drowned at Vilano Beach on the outskirts of this small historical town, and most recently, Officer Miles Nasherton, the man responsible for killing Subject X, suffered a freak accident when he fell in the shower and died from blunt force trauma to his head.

  “With me now is local archaeologist, Dr. Curt Lohan, who was one of two men who first entered the gunpowder magazine. Dr. Lohan,” she said turning to Curt, “is it true that the authorities are withholding Subject X’s identity because of mysterious results regarding his autopsy?”

  Curt cringed inside, yet forced an outward smile. “First, I’d like to clarify that we don’t know the exact date the room was sealed or by whom. We assume it’s been some time because there are no records of the room’s existence. Furthermore, I can neither confirm nor deny why the man’s identity has yet to be released. As for the autopsy results, it’s a moot point. I witnessed the man being shot to death.”

  Knight continued to press. “But it is true two people in attendance at the room’s opening have subsequently died. Don’t you find this peculiar? These deaths have some people comparing the opening of this sealed room to the 1923 opening of King Tut’s tomb in Egypt, when many of the expedition members suffered untimely deaths following the discovery.”

  “Well,” Curt started, “it’s strongly suspected that deadly molds and bacteria were present within King Tutankhamen’s tomb, and that was the cause of death of those who died soon after the opening. Most of the others in the party didn’t pass away until years later. Even back then, I guess the press liked to feed imaginations. I do find it sad though for Dr. Fine and Deputy Nasherton’s families. It’s a tragic coincidence, nothing more. Death by drowning and blunt trauma can hardly be tied to the room at the Castillo.”

  “So how do you explain Subject X’s presence in a stone room walled shut for some time?”

  “The man was obviously skilled at deception. As an archaeologist, it’s not something we generally have to guard against, especially when no treasure such as gold or other antiquities are expected to be found. Not many would go to the time and effort it would take to plan and implement such a ruse. It appears the man sought attention, and carefully planned his entry into the room at some point after the wall had been breached.”

  “So you’re saying the man pulled off a ‘Harry Houdini?’ Isn’t it embarrassing to consider that this archaeological site was contaminated by some crazed person, and neither you nor the authorities can figure out how Subject X came to be inside the room? Isn’t it plausible that a supernatural element is in play here?”

  Curt felt his anger rise and did not hesitate to respond. “There was considerable debris clouding the air from the equipment used to cut through the side wall into the gunpowder magazine. It’s not hard to imagine that the man, concealed
in park ranger clothing possibly, entered the room unseen amid the dust.”

  Knight pushed again in her distracting style. “And then ran out and attacked a police officer? For what purpose?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t speculate as to Subject X’s mental state or motive. To plan such a scheme is not the workings of a rational individual, in my opinion.”

  Knight’s expression gave a hint of her underlying discontent with how this interview was going. “You saw Subject X up close. Was there anything peculiar about him? Any identifying marks which might lead investigators to determine who he was?”

  “He did have an unusual triton-shaped design on his jawbone.”

  Her face seemed to brighten with this last tidbit of information. “Interesting,” Knight remarked. “A tattoo?”

  “I won’t speculate; either a tattoo or birthmark. You’d have to ask the police.”

  “Are you at all concerned that you were not only in attendance, but, along with the director of the Florida National Park Service, Dr. Travis Peklis, you were first to enter the sealed room? Surely if not a curse, there could have been molds or spores carrying diseases here as well?” Her words were flippant.

  Curt noticed the question had not scrolled from the monitor. Ms. Knight had gone off script, and this irritated him even more. “I assure you both Dr. Peklis and I have been checked by a physician and stamped with clean bills of health. As for the room, it’s been scoured by archaeologists and microbiologists and nothing unusual was found inside.”

  She offered a false smile. “Thank you, Dr. Curt Lohan.” She turned back to the camera, her white teeth beaming. “Well, we’ve heard from Dr. Curt Lohan. When Spook Pursuit returns, we’ll go inside the massive 17th-century Spanish fort and begin our live investigation, where we’ll get to the bottom of the mystery of the man from the sealed room.”

  “Wrap,” an unknown voice said, and both the red light on the camera and the flood light in front of them shut off.

  Chasey turned to Curt. “Not much of a showman, are you?”

  “I’m an archaeologist, not an actor. I propose theories only when supported by tangible evidence.”

  She turned, then whirled around to face him again, biting her bottom lip as if a question was lingering on the tip of her tongue. “You probably get this a lot, but with a last name like Lohan, are you related to—?”

  “No,” Curt responded before she could finish the question.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Friday, August 12, 6:41 a.m. – Jacksonville, Florida

  Scott Marks was awakened by his wife Kay as she turned on the bedroom television. He was vaguely aware of her sitting on the bed next to him.

  “Wake up, handyman. You have chores to do,” she said, tucking her blonde hair behind her ears.

  “Five more minutes, and I’ll be up,” Scott said, burying his head beneath a pillow. She promptly removed it.

  “You said that 20 minutes ago, then 15 minutes before that, then…” Kay rose and walked toward the door.

  “Okay, okay, I’m up,” Scott said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “My first day off in six months, and I commit to chores. What was I thinking?”

  Kay stopped, turned, and smiled. “You were thinking how you’re a great husband and father. Your coffee’s on the nightstand.”

  Scott propped himself up in bed and brushed his disheveled, dirty-blonde hair from his hazel eyes. His five-year-old son Cody came bounding into the room and landed across him. “Morning, Daddy!”

  “Hey, Sport,” Scott said, “you think I’m a landing pad, huh? You think that?” Scott said as he tickled Cody into submission. The boy giggled raucously. Just then, the phone rang. Scott glanced at the caller ID as he picked it up.

  “Hello, Curt,” he answered.

  In the distance, Kay called for Cody to eat breakfast, and the little boy jumped from the bed and raced from the room.

  “Morning.”

  “How’d the interview go last night?”

  “As expected. That Knight woman is a piece of work. I’m amazed anyone actually watches that show.”

  “I didn’t. Did she try and get dirt on the man you and Dr. Peklis found inside the room?”

  “Yep, and unfortunately, I don’t know any more than the public. About the only information I gave them that they didn’t seem to be aware of was the triton-shaped mark on the man’s jawbone. As for the death of Bernice Fine and Deputy Nasherton, I reiterated that they were coincidental tragedies. She didn’t like hearing that.”

  “Poor Nasherton,” Scott replied, “first he nearly gets his face ripped off by that lunatic hiding in the gunpowder magazine, then he dies in a freak accident.”

  “I think she wanted me to say that the crazed man had somehow stayed alive in the gunpowder magazine for hundreds of years or was a ghost. It wasn’t gonna happen.”

  There was a half-second of silence before Scott spoke. “So what was his motivation?”

  “Subject X? Who knows? He was obviously insane; mad enough to get himself killed.”

  “Well, I can see why the press is staying on top of this. It’s got all the elements of a great story: death, mystery, history, collusion.”

  “Collusion? What collusion?”

  “They’re withholding his identity.”

  “Doubtful. You read too many conspiracy novels.”

  “Nevertheless, why are you calling so early?”

  There was a pause. “I need your help. Can I come in?”

  “Come in?”

  “I’m parked in your driveway.”

  Scott rose from the bed and went to the window to crack the blinds. Curt’s blue Mustang was indeed in the driveway. He waved up to Scott through the windshield.

  “Yeah, come on in, as long as you don’t mind seeing me in my underwear.”

  “Boxers, not briefs, right?”

  “I’ll surprise you.”

  Scott came downstairs wearing a tee shirt and gray sweat pants and carrying his cup of coffee. There was a knock at the front door. “I got it, Kay. It’s Curt,” he yelled toward the kitchen. When he opened the door, to his surprise, Curt was standing on the porch in a dark green pullover shirt and dress shorts. He was propped between a pair of crutches with his left foot extended in a cast that reached from his knee to his ankle.

  “What happened to you? Did you piss Lila off again?”

  “Every opportunity I get,” Curt said, hobbling inside. Scott backed up to hold the door open wide. “Actually, I slipped on the sidewalk outside the Castillo shortly after the interview last night. I got to spend some quality time in the emergency room. Hey, maybe there is a King Tut curse, and I’m just lucky to have survived.”

  “Is it broken?”

  “No, but my ankle and knee are badly sprained.”

  “Poor guy,” Kay said, walking into the foyer with Cody.

  “You look silly, Mr. Curt,” Cody grinned.

  “And I feel silly, Cody.”

  “Come into the kitchen and have a seat,” Scott said leading the way.

  Curt lumbered up to the island bar and awkwardly took a seat, propping his crutches to the side. Kay escorted Cody back to the breakfast table to his half-eaten bowl of cereal.

  “So what’s going on?” Scott asked.

  “How come you’re not getting ready for work?”

  “I’ve got the day off.”

  “Perfect.”

  “How so?”

  “After I did the live broadcast last night, I received a call from a man who claims he knows the identity of Subject X.”

  Scott raised his eyebrows. “You believe him?”

  “Won’t know until I talk to him. He wants to speak with me in person. I need you to go with me. As you can see, I’m not very mobile.”

  Scott looked toward Kay. “Can I give you a rai
n check on the ‘honey dos’?”

  “I guess your chores can wait,” Kay said with a smile. “You can’t turn down a friend in need, my Mom used to say.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Curt chimed in.

  Kay spoke. “You want some coffee, Curt?”

  “No, I’m good. I already had my fill this morning.”

  “Where are we driving to?” Scott asked, raising his cup to take a sip.

  “The airport,” Curt responded nonchalantly.

  “Your guy’s coming in on a flight?”

  “We’re taking a flight out.”

  Kay turned to Curt. Scott froze, coffee cup almost to his lips. Then he slowly lowered the cup to the counter. “And where exactly are we going?”

  “You have your passport, right?”

  “Passport?”

  Curt looked to Kay, who was standing motionless beside the counter. “I promise, Kay, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

  “When will you have him home?”

  Scott interrupted. “Where are we going?”

  “We’ll be home by Sunday morning; noon at the latest. I appreciate this so much, Kay.”

  Kay seemed borderline bemused. “For a couple of guys who are much closer to 40 than 30, you two sure do a lot on the spur of the moment.” Then she turned to Scott. “You know Cody and I are leaving Monday morning for California to see my sister, right? Get back here so we have a chance to see you Sunday before we’re gone for the week.”

  Scott held up his hands in frustration. “Wait, wait.” Then he turned to Curt. “Where. Are. We. Going?”

  Curt turned to Kay. “You know, I think I will take that cup of coffee.” Then he swiveled the stool to face Scott. “The best thing about my old employer, Ysluk Inc., was the frequent flyer miles I’d built up over the years. My friend, you’re going on an all-expense-paid trip to Bolivia.”