CHAPTER FIVE
Friday, August 12, 8:00 a.m. – Jacksonville, Florida
An hour later, the two men were on their way to Jacksonville International Airport with Scott at the wheel of Curt’s Mustang. Not in his wildest imagination could Scott have guessed he would be on his way to South America that morning.
The air outside remained mired in the late summer heat. Since Monday, the temperature in Jacksonville had been stifling. The intermittent rain showers the previous weekend as a result of Hurricane Darren, which had passed several hundred miles to the east, had only made the air more humid. As was usually the case this time of year, several tropical storms were brewing in the Atlantic ready to follow on Darren’s heels.
Scott spoke. “You already bought our tickets, didn’t you?”
“Before I called you this morning.”
“What if I couldn’t go?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let an ailing friend down.”
“Tell me more about this guy in Bolivia. He called you out of the blue?”
“After he saw me on television last night. He’s a monk. Father En. I don’t know anything more about him. I suspect the man from the gunpowder magazine may have been a friend or relative.”
“And we’re flying thousands of miles based upon a phone call from a man who may be a crackpot?”
“I’m an archaeologist. We go with our instincts. The tone of Father En’s voice told me he has information. Besides, it’ll be fun.”
Their flight left JIA shortly after noon. With Curt’s mobility extremely hampered, Scott had the double duty of helping his friend along while carrying Curt’s laptop. Three connections and almost 12 hours later, the last one in an extremely crowded Mexico City airport, they arrived in La Paz, Bolivia. Because the airport sits above the city on a high plateau within the Andes Mountains where the air is extremely thin, incoming flights have to descend quickly, usually resulting in a white-knuckle landing. It was 11:42 p.m. local time when they touched down, and Scott had to pry his fingers from the arm rest as the plane taxied to the terminal.
They retrieved their luggage and walked outside to catch a taxi when reality struck them in the face with a cold slap. They had failed to take into account that, while it was summer in the States, Bolivia was well below the equator, and thus it was winter. Neither had brought a coat, so, tired and cold in the 35-degree air, they settled into rooms at a motel near the airport. Their in-room heaters barely worked, the bed sheets were stained and reeked of an unidentifiable odor, and the bathrooms resembled an outhouse, only with sturdier walls.
Scott was still waiting for the fun to start.
CHAPTER SIX
Friday, August 12, 8:56 a.m. – New Brunswick, New Jersey
Sherri Falco sat inside the Cessna 350 Corvalis anxiously awaiting the arrival of her FAA inspector while running through the pre-flight checklist in her head. The plane had been prepped and moved into position, and now all she could do was wait. This would be her second attempt at obtaining her pilot’s license, which made it even more nerve-wracking. To fail once was uncomfortable; a second time would be embarrassing. The Cornicci Airport runway loomed ahead like a flat, menacing serpent. She had to get control of her emotions and fend off the pessimism which began to swell yesterday.
For the 34-year-old public relations manager, the week had not ended well. Actually, that was a colossal understatement. She had received a phone call yesterday afternoon from Lincoln Mosset, founder and president of her firm. Her biggest account, Hatch Pharmaceuticals, had decided to pull out. Mosset had been encouraging; telling Sherri it was not her fault the company had decided to go in another direction, but she knew better. The public relations industry is a people business. It’s all about handholding, and while she had worked her butt off, the account had been passed to her after the firm’s star employee had left for more money at another firm. The executives of Hatch Pharmaceuticals had never warmed up to Sherri despite the fact she was intelligent and hardworking. Sherri did not think they were prejudiced against a woman, but there was no denying that in some business sectors the ‘good ole boy network’ still ruled.
Now, waiting for the FAA inspector, she realized the odds of returning to work Monday and still having a job were slim. With sole custody of her seven-year-old daughter, Tina, the thought nauseated her.
A clomping sound on the right wing abruptly roused her from her gloomy thoughts. Her instructor, Max Lane, opened the passenger door.
“Bad news, kiddo,” the man said, standing with the door propped open. “You just got a call over at the flight control tower. It’s a Mr. Mosset. He tried to call your cell, but it’s probably in your locker. Anyway, he said he needs you to come into the office immediately. Looks like your vacation day has been cancelled. We’ll have to do this another time. I’ll notify the FAA inspector when he arrives.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lane,” she said cordially, trying hard to mask her disappointment.
Great, Sherri thought as she climbed from the cockpit. Mr. Mosset was not even going to wait until after the weekend to fire me.
****
Cornicci Airport was on the outskirts of New Brunswick, and Sherri found herself clogged in rush-hour traffic. The trip into the city took nearly 35 minutes, but she finally arrived at the Mosset Public Relations office on George Street across from the Heldrich Hotel. She wore a Rutgers tee shirt, blue jeans, and a baseball cap with a pony tail sticking out of it; not exactly corporate attire, but she doubted she had to worry about her appearance. The conversation with Mr. Mosset would most likely be brief. Afterward, Sherri would go home, do nothing for the day, then get her resume together and hit the streets on Monday. She dreaded the thought of starting over, but fate was beyond her control.
Sherri parked on the street and entered the two-story building, passing the lone security guard, where she arrived at the receptionist’s desk. She offered a brief smile and nod. The receptionist returned a placid smile as she said, “Mr. Mosset asked that you meet him in Conference Room 4.”
“Thanks,” Sherri said. Her stomach rose and flopped. Mosset made it a common practice to release employees in conference rooms and not in his office. Conference Room 4 was on the first floor, just off the lobby, and close to the guard in case there was any trouble. If there had been any lingering doubt as to Mr. Mosset’s intentions for this meeting, they had just crystallized for Sherri.
She reached the door and knocked gently.
“Come in,” a deep voice returned.
Sherri entered. Lincoln Mosset sat at the far end of the ten-person conference table. The African American was an imposing figure even before he uttered a word in his baritone voice. An ex-linebacker at Rutgers, he had a straightforward personality which cut through bullshit and got right to the point on matters. Sherri realized, though, that this was the genius in the man. While he appeared to be forthright, Mosset was a manipulator extraordinaire, turning words to his benefit, and getting people to agree with his ideas. This commanding trait had served him well in the public relations field. He had owned a thriving business now for almost six years. The little bit of gray that crept onto his sideburns only accentuated his distinguished look.
He waived a meaty hand toward the chair on his left. “Please, Sherri, have a seat.”
She approached him and took the proffered chair.
“I apologize for interrupting your vacation day. I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t important. One of the associates told me you were at that small airport. Were you doing anything fun?”
Sherri found the small talk distasteful. “I was about to test for my pilot’s license.”
“I learned to fly helicopters after college. It’s an invigorating experience to soar with the birds.” Abruptly switching subjects, he continued. “That was a sad ordeal yesterday with Hatch Pharmaceuticals. I thought I’d take those guys to the grave with me.”
/> He manufactured a laugh. Sherri took it as the final signal he was about to deliver bad news.
“Brian had those guys in his back pocket for so long, I just never imagined they’d ever turn tail and run.”
Sherri felt compelled to speak. “I assure you, Mr. Mosset, I did my best. Just last week, I spent three days onsite at their New York City office.”
Mosset’s face hardened a bit. “I know you did, and I appreciate your efforts, especially since you’re a single parent and had to make the drive each day.”
There was a pause, and the room became disturbingly quiet. Then Mosset continued, “But nothing is permanent. We both found that out yesterday. Often, when we are forced to change, things tend to work out better than if we’d remained stationary.”
Sherri mentally braced herself.
A faint smile erupted into a full grin on Mosset’s face. “You’re originally from Northeast Florida, right Ms. Falco?”
The question surprised her. “In a way, yes. I was born downstate in Homestead. I moved to Palatka with my mother when my parents divorced in my early teens. We lived there for eleven years. She’s deceased now, and I no longer have family in the area other than an uncle.”
“Are you currently dating anyone?”
She resented the question. “Why are you asking, Mr. Mosset?”
“Because I’ve got a new assignment for you. We were approached by a client this morning who wants you to start on Monday. It will require you to be onsite for several weeks, possibly longer. In that time, you’re to focus exclusively on this one client. The rest of your workload will be temporarily divided among other client managers.” He sat back as a bemused look cascaded over his face. “Funny, we lose a big one, we gain a big one. Amazing how these types of things work out.”
Sherri was speechless.
“Any questions?” Mosset leaned forward and locked his thick fingers together on the table.
Sherri shook herself from the near disbelief that, not only was she still employed, she was being given what Mosset referred to as a big, new client. “Uh, yes. Who is the client, and where will I be going?”
“The client is the City of St. Augustine, Florida, and I believe that also answers your second question.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Saturday, August 13, 7:11 a.m. – La Paz, Bolivia
Scott had just dressed and begun packing when he heard the knock on his motel room door. He looked through the peephole to see Curt as he opened the door. “I’m almost packed. I only need another minute.”
Curt walked in, his suitcase in one hand and his PC bag slung over his shoulder. He plopped down on the bed. “I’m early. I figure as long as we get on the road by 7:30, we’ll be at Achacachi in a couple of hours at the most. It’s to the northwest near Lake Titicaca…and don’t bother making fun of the lake’s name. I’ve already come up with about a thousand one-liners. I purchased two coats from a vendor on the corner. The average low this time of year is 36 degrees. Oh, and make sure you keep your passport out and accessible.”
Scott barely heard a word Curt said. He pointed at his friend’s left leg, which was distinctly lacking a cast. “Um...?”
Curt’s eyes deflected downward.
Scott knew he was purposely avoiding his gaze. “You lied to me.”
“I deceived you. ‘Lie’ is such a harsh word.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Would you have come with me otherwise?”
“And chance missing all this fun? Of course I would have.”
“Really,” Curt seemed genuinely surprised.
“No. I was just deceiving you,” Scott said through gritted teeth.
“Look, you took your first day off in what…months? And you were going to do chores? Not a good way to relax. You need this. You love archaeological mysteries as much as me. I just turned my fascination into a profession. Don’t you think that having a slim chance of discovering the identity of Subject X just might be worth a two-day trip away from home?”
Scott knew Curt was right, and he felt his anger subside. “Kay’s going to kick your ass when she finds out.”
“I’m going to avoid your neighborhood for awhile.”
****
They rented a jeep and Curt drove them northwest. The town of Achacachi was 47 miles away, but only if they could have driven there in a straight line. The road out of La Paz took them over mountainous terrain to the town of Huarina. From there, they took an unpaved side road north-northwest. The landscape was barren and cold, and the snow-capped Illampu peak loomed like a massive white pyramid in the distance.
As the vehicle labored up one of many steep hills, Curt broke the silence, “Achachaci is a somewhat unique little town. I did some research before we left. It predates the arrival of the Spaniards and is still an agrarian community, although it’s become a place of turmoil over the last decade. It’s now an independent republic of Aymaras; a native ethnic group of the Andes.”
“Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?” Scott lamented.
“Well, I have to admit,” Curt continued, “it’s not a place we’d want to stay long. They don’t exactly welcome foreigners, and there’s a strong military presence on the north end of town. Soldiers frequently stop tour buses and tourists to check passports. That’s why I told you to keep yours handy. Fortunately, we’re staying to the south of the city.”
They arrived at the outskirts to Achacachi by 10:00 a.m., but it took another hour to locate the monastery. The GPS map and directions Scott referenced on his iPhone managed to get them lost three times. It appeared mapping South American roads was not a priority of travel software applications.
The monastery was at the end of a one-lane, rock-strewn road which made a series of bends and sweeping turns over a half-mile stretch. Lifeless trees crowded the road on either side. When the view ahead finally opened, they saw a solid gray, stone structure rising before them. It appeared to be three stories, although it was hard to tell without any visible windows. The building was nearly as wide as it was tall, giving it a cube shape. Steps led to a raised wooden doorway. Dark smoke billowed from a vent in the roof. The grounds on all sides were cleared, and a free-standing barn stood to the right in back of the main building. Two goats looked up at them from near the structure. A rooster scampered along the grounds chasing a hen. A boy of maybe nine or ten sat upon the steps whittling a piece of wood. He was nicely clothed, with a thick hoodie jacket. He looked up as they parked in front of the building.
“It sure doesn’t look like a monastery,” Scott said.
“How many monasteries have you seen in person?”
Scott thought for a second. “Good point.”
“My name is Julio,” the little boy said approaching the jeep as Scott and Curt got out. “The Padre said you would arrive soon. You are Americans? Have you ever been to Disney World? Which one of you is Curt?”
Curt stepped forward. “You’ve got a lot of questions for a little guy. I’m Curt Lohan, and this is my friend, Scott Marks.”
“Lohan?” Julio crinkled his nose. “I read People Magazine. Are you a relative to—?”
“No,” Curt cut him off.
Scott snickered to the side, his breath expelling a mist of condensation.
“How’d you learn to speak English so well?” Scott asked, pulling beside Curt.
“The Padre, he teach me. Good, no?”
“Very good,” Scott nodded. “Probably better than Curt.”
Curt ignored the remark. “Do you live here with Father En?”
“No, we just friends. He teach me many things, and I help him with the animals and garden. He is a good, kind man.”
“Well, Julio, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And yes, I have been to Disney World. I’m sure you’ll get there one day. Would you be so kind as to let Father En know that we’re here?
”
Julio had just turned toward the building when the front door swung open and a man emerged wearing a dark-brown robe that formed a cowl at the neck. A drawstring kept it tightly secured at the waist. His arms, hands, and feet were completely covered in a white, skintight material like thermal underwear. A wide sombrero perched lazily on his head; the front folding down to shadow his face. He appeared to be in his late 60s or early 70s, although it was difficult to ascertain with so much of his body covered and in shadow. He moved spryly as he came down the stairs.
The monk must have seen the inquisitive stares at his attire. “Skin rash. The least bit of sun, and I break out.” An easy smile broke upon his face. It looked fabricated to Curt. “Which one of you is Curt Lohan?” The man spoke perfect English with no hint of a Spanish accent.
Curt stepped forward and shook the monk’s hand, then turned and introduced Scott. Curt noticed Julio was now gone.
“Thank you for coming. Please, let’s go inside to talk.”
They followed the monk up the dozen steps, where he ushered them inside a nondescript room with a rectangular wooden table with pew benches on either side. A candle burned at each end of the table. Four rocking chairs were angled outward from each corner of the room. Set into the far stone wall, a fire raged in an oversized fireplace, sending warmth throughout the room.
Curt and Scott sat to one side of the table, the monk on the other. As he removed his sombrero, Curt noticed his short, wispy white hair.
Father En began, “You’ve come a long way, so let’s get our conversation started. As I mentioned, I saw your appearance on that ridiculous American television show Spook Pursuit two nights ago. I happened to be in town at a friend’s abode when it aired. As I told you over the phone, I know who the man was that emerged from the gunpowder magazine at the Castillo.
Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1) Page 4
