The two men looked around the room with their flashlights. Unlike the gunpowder magazine, this room lacked the low, arched, Quonset-hut-style ceiling. Instead, it appeared to be another storage room, but this one was rectangular with a flat ceiling that reached approximately seven feet high, unlike the construction of the rest of the Castillo. Also different from the other storerooms was the fact there was an inner lip which framed what must have been the original entryway: a six-and-a-half-foot arched doorway in the near wall. The lip was thick, extending out nearly three inches. The perpetrator had missed the original opening completely, although it did not appear as if he or she cared; further evidence of a shoddy, rushed job done under cover of darkness.
On a whim, Curt ran his hand atop the doorway lip and stopped at the peak when he felt a cold cylindrical object. He caught Dr. Peklis’s gaze, then pulled the object down and into his flashlight beam.
“What is it?” Dr. Peklis asked.
Curt held the object out for both men to see. It was a thin, gray plastic tube, approximately four inches long. One end had a bulbous yellow cap and the other end, which was also yellow, had a nipple-shaped cap with a small hole in it.
“Any idea what it is?” Curt asked.
“No.”
“Interesting. It must have been left here by whoever broke into the room. This was made using a current-day plastic mold.”
Dr. Peklis took the object from Curt’s hand and, retrieving a plastic bag from his pocket, deposited it inside. He zipped it shut and placed it in his pants pocket. “I’ll have it examined.”
Curt turned and thought for a moment. A second concealed area within the massively thick walls of the Castillo was another incredible find. He considered the anomaly inside the gunpowder magazine. He aimed the flashlight, turning three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees and allowing his light to rove the walls. He stopped and moved closer to the wall before him.
Dr. Peklis noticed his curious stare. “What is it?”
Curt brought his flashlight within inches of the wall. Peklis moved closer to examine the surface. Curt brushed his hand over the rough coquina. They turned in unison and quickly examined the other walls and ceiling.
Although not nearly as deep or numerous as those found in the gunpowder magazine, the walls contained the same patterns of striations.
Only Curt knew the truth. They were fingernail marks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Tuesday, August 16, 3:30 p.m. – Ocala, Florida
Sydney Couperin sat exhausted in the wicker chair on the dock underneath the large umbrella. Before him, the small lake reached left, bordered by a solid wall of trees. To the right, the only other vacation home on the water sat across the way. He had watched it all day but had yet to see movement on the dock or in the yard. He suspected it was unoccupied for the summer. All the better.
The smell of pine slowly drifting in from the west mixed with the broiling heat of summer. The wind had calmed, leaving the surface of the lake flat. If not for the ungodly humidity, Sydney might have been able to fall asleep right here. He desperately needed rest. Earlier, he had tried to sleep in the air-conditioned cabin to no avail. While his body was exhausted, his mind continued to churn. He chose to take solace on the dock and enjoy the outdoor serenity as best as he could.
An unseen fish boiled the surface of the water nearby. Two ducks honked as they gleefully paddled across the still water a short distance away.
Things were coming to a head, and he feared the situation was about to spiral out of control. Money. Everything always came down to money: the one form of greed mankind has never been able to resist. Why had he allowed himself to become involved? His interest had not been monetary: it was the allure of time; a commodity few value as much as money. He now realized his mistake. Cheating death was not an option modern man was meant to achieve. He knew the process had been implemented long ago for a specific purpose, and that time and reason had long since passed.
Sydney had discovered the secret they all sought, and he would do everything in his power to prevent them from learning it, even if it meant his own death. If unleashed, Sydney was convinced that the boundless power of the tool, when deployed, would ensure the extinction of man.
With chagrin, he yearned for things to return to normal. Moving to Northeast Florida had been a blessing which had somehow gone terribly wrong. It had been his choice, his decision, which had turned his life upside down. His predicament could have been averted, although the danger would still have existed. Either way, he felt morally responsible to resolve what now appeared to be an unsolvable situation.
Unfortunately, those in control knew his Achilles heel: Sherri. It was his fear for her safety which had backed him into a corner and forced him to take extraordinary action.
Sydney looked to the cabin, considering what he had acquired.
He just prayed this bargaining chip would be enough.
****
Dr. Peklis bound Curt to secrecy regarding the criminal activity at the Castillo. The director of the Florida National Park Service had planned to have the NPS office send a prepared press release regarding the vandalism that had led to the discovery of a second secret room. After Peklis’ mini-tirade that afternoon, Curt was not about to ignore the man’s directive. Curt had to deflect a barrage of questions from Sherri Falco when he called to see if she had heard anything from Sydney. They agreed that if Sherri did not hear from him by later this evening, she should file a missing person’s report with police.
Curt also spoke to Scott. For the second time, he had to dodge questions about the meeting with Dr. Peklis at the Castillo. Once he explained to Scott the information was confidential and could result in his loss of employment, Scott had backed off.
Sometime later, Curt was preparing dinner when his phone rang.
“Mr. Lohan, this is Renee Chaps with the City Commission Manager’s office. Harvey Shottier asked me to call. Can you come by the City Commission building? Mr. Shottier would like to speak to you in his office right away.”
“Right now?” Curt asked, looking longingly at the juicy steak frying in the skillet. These calls for urgent meetings were beginning to wear on him.
“Yes, he says it’s imperative that he speak to you immediately.”
Curt quietly sighed. “Okay, I’ll be right over.”
Fifteen minutes later, Curt arrived at the former Hotel Alcazar. Built in 1887, it now doubled as both the Lightner Museum and the City Commission’s offices. He walked the breezeway along the side of the courtyard and found Shottier’s nameplate on an outer door. He entered a secretarial office and saw Shottier through an open door of an adjoining office. The man sat at his desk, head down, reading something with glasses perched precariously low on his nose. His rigid body language confirmed what Renee Chaps had said: something was wrong. For the second time that day, Curt felt as if he were walking into the principal’s office after being caught dropping an M80 firecracker down the toilet in the boys’ room.
The last time he had been in the City Commission Manager’s office was two weeks ago when he was interviewed for the consulting assignment to support Sherri’s PR firm. Shottier’s office was exactly as he remembered it, with pictures of his three children huddled in a collage on the wall, and not a single photo of his deceased wife who had died in an automobile accident three years ago. Rumor had it they were not getting along and were close to a divorce when the tragedy occurred.
Curt leaned in and knocked on the open door. Shottier looked up over his glasses. Wordlessly, he motioned Curt inside. His demeanor was considerably more intense than it had been at yesterday morning’s meeting with Sherri. Then again, Curt had the distinct disadvantage of not being a gorgeous redhead.
The bad feeling that had started as a seed was growing quickly.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lohan.”
Shottier was being too forma
l. “No problem.”
Shottier gave Curt a measured stare. “It’s late, so I’m going to get right to the point. I received a call from Dr. Travis Peklis. He believes you are involved with the tampering of property at the Castillo de San Marcos. He had some very harsh things to say, and frankly, I understand his position.”
“Mr. Shottier, I’ve already discussed the matter with Dr. Peklis. He jumped to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence. I assure you, I did nothing wrong.” A sinking feeling settled in the pit of Curt’s empty stomach.
“Normally, it wouldn’t be a matter that involves me,” Shottier said, leaning back in his leather chair and tenting his fingers in the air, “but this office has hired you for your expertise on a potentially critical project for the City of St. Augustine. The negative publicity of your affiliation with criminal matters such as the destruction and damage of a national monument is not something I will tolerate. We’re not going to make our own public relations nightmare. Is that clear?”
“I assure you, you have nothing to worry about,” Curt said.
“I hope you’re right, Mr. Lohan. If evidence turns up to implicate you, we’ll pursue legal action.”
Over the next twenty minutes, Shottier continued to levy a torrent of admonishments and threats, including cancelling Curt’s contract for cause. He even called Curt’s professional and ethical standards into question several times, to which Curt took vehement exception, arguing that such an attack was unwarranted. It was clear the city executive was simply displaying his power. This conversation could have easily occurred over the phone. Then again, the face–to-face meeting allowed Shottier to glare at Curt as he spoke, and it was a most imposing glare at that.
It was only after some time that Shottier relented. To Curt’s dismay, Shottier closed by informing him that he would not pursue revocation of his contract but Curt was officially considered on warning. It had been an odd turn in the conversation. Even Shottier’s demeanor slacked.
Shottier finally rose and escorted Curt to the door. “I’m meeting friends for a late dinner. Would you care to join us?”
Curt knew he did a poor job of masking his surprise to the question. “Thanks, but I’m a bit tired. It’s been a long day.” Besides, he thought, how can you be hungry after chewing on my ass for the last half hour?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Tuesday, August 16, 9:30 p.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
Curt arrived home and reheated his meal, which now consisted of a slab of meat with the texture of dried spackle. He ate quickly, washing it down with a light beer. Afterward, he laid down on the couch in his living room. It had been a hectic six days. The Spook Pursuit interview, a trip to Bolivia, the meeting with the City of St. Augustine, the discovery of the Fish hidden within the gunpowder magazine, the biological impossibility of the Fish coming to life and destroying Marvin’s bathroom, the opening and discovery of another sealed room within the Castillo by someone, and getting chewed out by two governmental officials. It was not a typical week at the office, even for a seasoned archaeologist.
The claw marks in the newly opened room seemed to indicate a person had been walled shut in this second enclosure as well. He wondered if Pinot LeFlore had been a prisoner in that room for a short time before being moved to the gunpowder magazine by the Spanish. If so, that might explain why there were fewer striations. What it didn’t explain is why the claw marks were less severe. It was yet another mystery among a myriad of unanswered questions.
Most disconcerting was the disappearance of Sydney Couperin. Curt did not know the man well, but the circumstances, especially given the voice mail he left Sherri, was troubling. Foul play was a distinct possibility, but by whom and why?
Sherri Falco. Now that counted as a bright spot in his week. Although their first meeting...and second...and third had been borderline confrontational, he had to admit he was delighted she had come to him for help this morning. He was also pleased she had been comfortable enough to let him accompany her to Sydney’s house. Her trust had been slow to come, but he was definitely making inroads.
Even though Curt was not a big fan of kids, except for Scott’s son, something about Tina was uplifting and cute. She seemed to embrace every aspect of what a child should be: happy, polite, and toilet trained. Maybe children weren’t so bad after all.
The next thing Curt knew, Sherri was in his living room. She walked over to him and touched his face lightly with the back of her hand. Without a word, she sat down on the couch beside him.
“What are you doing...?” He began with a look of bewilderment.
“Shhhhh,” she said, placing her fingers to his lips.
She was wearing very little: a blue lace bra with matching silk underwear. She smelled fresh. Her gaze was seductive. Her full, moist lips glistened, and her eyes cascaded an inviting smile as she reached her hand over and touched his thigh.
Curt grinned, and she returned his gaze with a delicious bite of her bottom lip. Her red hair was lying gracefully about her bare shoulders and along the sides of her cheeks, delicately framing her face.
As far as Curt was concerned, she was an angel.
He stared down at her fingers as they traced a gentle trail from his knee to his upper thigh. Her touch was captivating, and he could feel his body responding to her.
She looked down, and he could see that she knew the effect she was having on him. It obviously pleased her. The smile again spread across her face as she raised her head and leaned toward him. Her green eyes radiated desire, and the two gently kissed. As their lips locked, their tongues sought more, twirling and darting, as they tasted each other.
Sherri moaned as she eagerly dragged her fingers across his lap, scraping the material gently with her nails. He encircled his hands around her body and pressed her lips to his in a passionate embrace as they fell back. Each allowed their hands to explore.
She proceeded to climb on him and settle in a raised position. He extended his hands upward and firmly clutched her. He wanted more. He ran his hands through her hair as her fiery eyes and a glimmer of perspiration beckoned to him. A moment later...
Curt awoke to the quietness of his house.
He rose to a sitting position and wiped his eyes. His pulse had quickened, and he was breathing heavily.
Yeah, you’re quite the lover, Lohan…in your dreams.
Curt looked at the wall clock once his breathing subsided. It was just after eleven. He allowed a moment for his head to clear. He leaned forward and found the television controls on the coffee table and clicked them on.
The news was on. Sean Reilly, the Channel 6 Jacksonville weatherman, was providing an update on the hurricane:
“At 11:00 p.m. Eastern time, the National Hurricane Center has issued the following update on Hurricane Fernando. The storm has grown in intensity with sustained winds reaching 139 miles per hour. A Category 4 hurricane, Fernando is expected to be a Category 5 within 24 hours as it’s seeded by the warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean. It is now a major threat to the northeast coast of Florida and southeast Georgia. The current projection has it coming ashore in the St. Augustine vicinity Thursday morning. Some forecasters believe Hurricane Fernando will become the most powerful hurricane on record with the potential to do more catastrophic damage than Hurricane Katrina in 2005.”
This was not good news. Residents would be required to evacuate by late afternoon or early evening tomorrow.
A ding roused him from his thoughts. It took a second to register that it had come from his laptop at the kitchen table and signified an incoming email. He jumped up, hoping it was from Sherri. It turned out to be spam. Disappointed, he turned the television off, went to his bedroom and closed the door. He lay down on the bed with his clothes still on.
Ten minutes later he was fast asleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, August 17, 3:48 a.m. – St.
Augustine, Florida
Somewhere amid a haze of gray, Curt heard an unrecognizable noise. It was an annoying sound that he attempted to shake off to no avail. Its persistence was aggravating.
Crack....crinkle...crack...pop!
He shouted for it to stop, but it continued nonetheless. Groggily, he yelled again, this time so hard it made him cough. He continued to shout, but this only exacerbated the situation, and he coughed and hacked even harder, unable to stop. His frustration mounted, and he slammed his fist to the side causing a radiating pain that started at his hand and flowed up one arm.
He woke to find himself tangled in his sheets. His fist was on the nightstand, stinging from the impact where he slammed it. Curt continued to cough, gasping to catch his breath. A strong, pungent odor filled the room. As his eyes adjusted, he saw dancing orange light peeking through the cracks of his bedroom door. The source of the crinkling sound came from somewhere in the house beyond.
His rise to consciousness was befuddled by his incessant coughing. He couldn’t gain his wits. The burn constricted his throat.
The scene suddenly crystallized in his mind. The swaying orange light seeping through the doorjamb was fire! He was coughing because the bedroom was filled with smoke.
Curt leaped out of bed, turned on the lamp, and dashed to the door, where he anxiously slapped the metal doorknob. It was searing hot. Smoke now billowed in from underneath the door, tendrils swirling through the frame. Visibility in the room was quickly diminishing and was further compounded by his watering eyes. He was hacking even more violently with each passing second.
Curt turned and grabbed his tee shirt from the floor and pressed it to his face, using it as a breathing mask. It eased his coughing but only marginally. He then grabbed his robe from the end of the bed and used it to grasp the door handle. With building fear, he gave it a turn.
Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1) Page 15
