Sherri led the way up the steps onto the wooden back porch, where Curt spied two deck chairs and a small table. When she reached the screen door, she opened it and rapped on the inner door. The air-conditioning unit outside was pumping at full speed. There was no answer. Sherri knocked again.
The door had a small, high glass window. Curt took one of the deck chairs and stood on it to see inside. There was light coming from the kitchen and a solitary lamp on the buffet in the living room. He saw no movement.
“Sydney! You home?” Sherri shouted, knocking on the door again with force.
No reply came.
“Sydney! It’s Sherri! Are you here?”
They moved to the front of the house, where they pressed the doorbell relentlessly for five minutes.
Curt was reluctant to admit it, but he suddenly shared Sherri’s concern for Sydney’s well being.
Sherri returned to the rear of the house, and Curt followed. He sensed the rising dread in her body language. Both were now perspiring from the heat. She stepped back on the deck and reached up to the porch lamp affixed to the back wall. In a matter of seconds, she had unscrewed three hand screws that held the cover plate. She jiggled the base, catching a key as it fell out. “Uncle Sydney is a creature of habit. He’s been hiding a house key in the same place for thirty years no matter where he lives.” She eyed it for a moment, noticing extensive rust.
“Doesn’t look like it’s been used for some time,” Curt said.
They returned to the front of the house. It took Sherri a moment to work the tarnished key, but soon the lock sprang.
They entered into a barren foyer joined to a living room ahead. A hallway to their left led to the bedrooms. Everything appeared to be normal. The air conditioning brought welcome relief from the heat. The fruity smell that Curt assumed was from an automatic air freshener filled the air. This was a good sign. Curt feared they might walk into the pungent aroma of death from a two-day-old body.
Sherri called for her uncle. When there was no response, they tentatively checked each bedroom. It became apparent the house was empty.
“See?” Curt said. “He’s gone off somewhere, that’s all. Does he fish or have other hobbies which might take him away for the night?”
“Not that I know of. And don’t forget his voicemail warning to me.” Sherri continued to canvas the last guest bedroom, looking through mail and papers stacked on his dresser.
They returned to the living room and moved into the den. Here, too, everything appeared to be in place. Even the items on the coffee table—a candle, television controls, DVR controls, cable controls—were arranged precisely, nested side-by-side.
Curt saw a resolute look in Sherri’s eyes as she searched the room intently. She drifted over to a PC on a side table. An animated, multi-colored cube appeared across the dark screen, moving slowly, ricocheting off the virtual sidewalls. Sherri gave the wireless mouse a jostle, and the screensaver was replaced by an email listing.
She looked up at Curt. He could read her expression.
“Hey,” he began. “If you suspect foul play, you’re within your rights to look at his emails, at least according to Curt’s rules.”
She nodded in agreement and then studied the inbox. Curt walked over and leaned in, looking over her shoulder. There was only one incoming email from [email protected]. It was received on August 13; three days ago.
With some reluctance, she clicked on the email, and it opened. Strangely, there was no text in the body, only an attached text document. The attachment was aptly named Joel081311.
“The attachment name incorporates the date it was sent,” Sherri remarked. When she tried to open it, she found it password protected.
“Whoever Joel is, he wanted the information secured,” Curt commented. “See if Sydney saved the document to his hard drive. If he did, he may have removed the password protection.”
Sherri checked the documents saved to the hard drive but it was not there. There were only six files and none started with the name “Joel” or had a file date matching the email.
Then she checked the outgoing mailbox. It was empty.
She reopened the email and forwarded it to her email address. Sherri looked up at Curt and explained, “Just in case we want to try and crack the password later.”
“Look,” Curt said, pointing to Sydney’s personal email address in the top left corner. “[email protected]. Does that stand for Judge Sydney maybe? Was your uncle ever a judge?”
Mild confusion swept over her face. “No, and when he emails me, that’s not the email he uses.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday, August 16, 11:06 a.m. – Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida
Scott and Tina had moved to the front seats of the Mustang. Maybe it was his fatherly disposition, but whatever it was, Tina had felt comfortable enough to share a litany of conversations with Scott.
Scott turned on the radio and heard a weather report on the two hurricanes. As expected, Hurricane Elena, the weaker of the two storms, had continued west into the Gulf of Mexico and turned northeastward, targeting the panhandle of Florida. The more dangerous storm, Fernando, was inching ever closer to the northeastern Florida seaboard. It had grown in intensity with sustained winds now at 129 miles per hour.
“Well, Tina,” Scott said, “we’re going to have to keep our eye on that hurricane.”
She turned to look at him. “Why, Mr. Scott? What’s a hurricane?”
“I forgot you probably haven’t heard much about such things.” He smiled. “It’s a big storm, bigger than most people can imagine.”
“I don’t like storms. Lightning and the big thunder booms scare me!” she said with widening eyes to exemplify her fright.
“Me neither, Tina. Hurricane Fernando is moving slow. If it keeps heading this way, there’s plenty of time to get away. No need to worry.”
“Why is it called Fernando?”
“These storms are given people’s names. Boys’ names and girls’ names in alphabetical order. Not long ago, there was Hurricane Darren. That one was a boy’s name and started with a ‘D’. The next one was named Elena; a girl’s name. That one’s a long way from here and isn’t going to bother us. This newest one is Hurricane Fernando; a boy’s name starting with an ‘F.’ Can you guess what the next storm name might be?”
Tina looked momentarily puzzled. Then a smile pushed across her face. “Let’s see....it will be a girl’s name...and start with a...‘G’.”
“Very good. As a matter of fact, I can tell you it will be ‘Gayleen. ’ ”
“Gayleen?” Tina arched her eyebrows expressively and giggled. “That’s a funny name. How do you know it will be Gayleen?”
“Lists are made five years in advance. I saw this year’s list in the newspaper.”
“Wow, that’s a long time. Who gets to name them?”
“The people who work at the National Hurricane Center.”
“I’d like to grow up and have that job.”
“Me too, Tina,” Scott smiled.
“I’d make sure there’s a Hurricane Scott and a Hurricane Curt.”
Scott chuckled. “I’d be honored, Tina.”
****
Curt called Scott on his cell and explained the situation. Scott shut the car off, and together the foursome waited inside Sydney’s house to see if he would return. Scott took Tina in the kitchen. They found a deck of cards in a drawer and passed the time playing Go Fish.
Sherri and Curt remained in the den. Her trepidation was visible as she paced back and forth. Curt sat on the love seat and tried to take her mind off things by asking about Tina and her work in New Jersey. She responded only with short, distracted answers. Sherri nearly tripped over herself when Curt’s cell phone rang. It was a wrong number.
At noon, they left a note on his Sydney’s table and headed ba
ck to St. Augustine, picking up fast food and eating as they drove. Curt noticed Sherri had held onto Sidney’s house key and was twirling it in her fingers for much of the drive. It was obvious her concern was mounting. Curt had to admit the circumstances were most unusual.
One block before his house, Curt received a call from a number he did not recognize.
“Hello?”
“Lohan, this is Dr. Peklis. I don’t care what you’re doing, I need to see you right now at the Castillo in St. Augustine,” his voice was authoritarian and demanding.
Curt was taken aback. “Um, sure. I’m not far away. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Can I ask what this is in regards to?”
“No,” he responded abrasively. There was a click, and Peklis was gone.
Curt pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it momentarily. “Huh.”
“Everything okay?” Scott asked.
“I’m not sure. The director of the Florida National Park Service wants to talk to me immediately. He wouldn’t tell me why. I’ll drop you guys at my house first.”
From Dr. Peklis’ tone, Curt had an uneasy feeling it was not going to be a pleasant meeting. This day just continued to get worse.
After letting Scott, Sherri, and Tina off, Curt drove to the Castillo’s parking lot amidst growing consternation. He climbed from the Mustang and walked up the inclined sidewalk. Dr. Peklis was ahead, standing resolutely in the middle of the path. Not far behind him, a pack of tourists were waiting in line at the ticket office.
Dr. Peklis wore dress slacks and a long-sleeved white, button-up shirt, and he was sweating profusely. His expression appeared stern, but it was impossible to be sure with his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.
“You and I have business inside,” Dr. Peklis announced abruptly.
“Good afternoon to you, too.” Curt could not help himself.
Peklis turned and started toward the walkway drawbridge without giving Curt a chance to ask questions.
Curt chased after Dr. Peklis, who was brusquely pushing through a knot of tourists congregated at the foot of the drawbridge. Whatever the man wanted to discuss obviously had him agitated.
With chagrin, Curt suspected he knew what it was. The displaced tile was discovered and someone—probably a park ranger who recognized Curt—noticed him in the fort around the same time.
Curt caught up to Dr. Peklis and fell into pace a step behind. When Dr. Peklis angled toward the northeast corner, walking directly through the grassy center of the courtyard, Curt felt his stomach slip. His suspicions were confirmed. The evidence could only be circumstantial. Besides, he had done no real damage to the floor. It would be a piece of cake to set some stone grout in the cracks and reseal the tile.
Peklis arrived at the entrance to the storage room where he stopped, turned, and yanked off his sunglasses. He eyed Curt with growing disdain. “What in the hell were you and your friend looking for on Monday?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking? What about Monday?” Curt said more sheepishly than he intended.
The fire in Dr. Peklis’s eyes hiked up a few degrees. “You know damn well what I’m talking about. Surveillance video shows you and your friend entering this storage room at 11:31 a.m. Then you returned outside, stood by the well cover from 11:58 a.m. to 12:04 p.m., and went back inside. You didn’t come back out again until 12:44 p.m., at which time you left the Castillo. Inside the gunpowder magazine, a stone tile has been dislodged.”
Curt feigned a look of surprise. “Dr. Peklis, we most definitely were here Monday as you said, but I was only conducting a routine physical examination of the gunpowder magazine for an upcoming interview; taking measurements, temperature readings, and other environmental and structural observations.”
“So for an hour and fifteen minutes, you broke out a tape measure then stared at the barren walls of that room during the midday heat in Florida in August? And you had nothing to do with that stone slab being dislodged from the floor? Is this what you’re asking me to believe?”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Curt responded. He hated to lie, but Dr. Peklis was on edge, and Curt was not prepared to take his wrath at the moment. Besides, they would eventually bring Dr. Peklis in on the find of the Fish, and all would be forgiven—hopefully. The government owned the Castillo and therefore laid claim to anything found within. Curt had no illusions of keeping the Fish and had every intention of turning it over to Peklis in the next 24 hours.
“Come with me now,” Peklis said tersely. Wordlessly, he turned and started walking again, this time toward the northwest corner, passing tourists in a flurry. The cloud cover from the morning was gone, and sunshine was streaming down. The early afternoon heat was causing red, perspiring faces everywhere. Curt followed, completely baffled as to where Peklis was leading him now. Upon reaching the corner, Dr. Peklis turned left and proceeded toward the southwest corner. Curt felt like a salmon moving upstream against a river of people as he struggled to keep up with Peklis. Once, Dr. Peklis bumped into a woman without offering an apology. Curt could not be sure, but he thought he saw steam coming out of the man’s ears.
Dr. Peklis marched into the corner storage room and went directly to the back where a cut led to an adjoining storage room, not unlike the two rooms linked outside the gunpowder magazine in the opposite corner of the Castillo. A hulking park ranger, with a name badge reading Justice Loustein, stood with his arms folded. Curt had met Loustein before. A muscle-bound, six-foot-four lug, the man worked out no less than three hours a day and had the personality of rust. In Loustein’s eyes, any man who did not try to bulk up was a sissy.
Loustein effectively barred the wall where a six-foot by five-foot gray tarp hung, extending to the floor. He eyed Curt condescendingly.
When Peklis approached, Loustein nonchalantly stepped aside and offered the director a flashlight. Then he held one out for Curt. When Curt tried to take it, Loustein held on. Only after a long glare, did Loustein release it. “There ya go, Ms. Lohan.”
“Good to see you, too, Ms. Loustein,” Curt snapped.
“And I suppose you don’t know a damn thing about this either?” Dr. Peklis said, ignoring their exchange. He discreetly looked around, then drew back the tarp at the bottom corner and pointed to a gaping opening in the wall.
Curt felt a charge of adrenaline. He knelt, turned his flashlight on, and aimed. Suffused light stabbed into the jagged opening, revealing an expansive area beyond the thick wall.
It was a second, previously undiscovered room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, August 16, 3:13 p.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
“This is incredible,” Curt looked up at Dr. Peklis in awe. He knelt again before the opening and gazed inside. The breached wall appeared to be the same thickness as the gunpowder magazine wall. “And you have no idea who did it?”
“No. It happened last night when the Castillo was closed.” Dr. Peklis’ disposition had softened. After showing Curt the opening to the second room, the two men had gone outside into the courtyard and had a heated discussion. It took some time, but Curt had finally convinced Peklis that he had nothing to do with the second room opening. Peklis calmed once he realized such an act would have been career suicide for Curt. Afterward, to his own surprise, Curt had successfully lobbied for another peek at the newly discovered room.
“Surely someone heard the jackhammer?”
“Sound doesn’t pass easily through the storage rooms into the courtyard. Even so, it loses considerable volume as it flows over the second-story deck. No one patrols the grounds at night, since the Castillo is fitted with an alarm system which activates once the drawbridge lowers. There are motion sensors lining the perimeter of the Castillo, and security cameras inside which only operate during daytime hours. Other than pranksters or vandals, there’s no reason to break into a National Monument such as this
, so it’s a rare occurrence.
“We suspect the perpetrator or perpetrators scaled the bayside wall. Whoever got in knew our security and went to a lot of trouble, not to mention lugging a jackhammer inside. We found the jackhammer right here where it was left this morning. I’ve had people reviewing video all morning of patrons in the Castillo over the last three days. That’s when we caught you and your friend spending time in the gunpowder magazine.”
“Have you examined the room?” Curt asked.
“Only a cursory look. We’ll have a formal archaeological team evaluate it over the next few days.”
“Mind if I take a quick look?”
Dr. Peklis hesitated, and Curt knew he was pressing his luck. “You have my solemn promise I won’t touch anything,” Curt added in his most sincere voice. He suspected that Peklis was also craving a look inside. Whatever time the man had spent in the room had been only to ascertain any criminal damage. Curt doubted he had been able to examine it with an archaeologist’s eye, something that any seasoned professional would yearn to do.
“Five minutes,” Dr. Peklis said firmly, “and I’m going in with you.” Although it appeared Curt had played the man correctly, an unexpected edge had returned to Peklis’ words. Curt sensed Peklis did not completely trust him.
Scooting through the low opening was even more of a challenge than entering the gunpowder magazine. Whoever had ruptured the wall had done so without regard to archaeological aesthetics. The stone tunnel had been cut in a hurry. Sharp, craggy pieces of coquina jutted out, grabbing at their clothes as they moved. Once through, Park Ranger Loustein allowed the tarp to fall back into place, concealing the room from tourists and blanketing them in darkness.
“How would someone have known about this room?” Curt asked as they stood, aiming his flashlight about. He did not expect an answer.
Dr. Peklis responded in kind. “And why break into it?”
Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1) Page 14
