Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “What happened to them?” Sherri asked pointing to the people on the ground. “What is my boss doing here?”

  “I made a poor choice, Dear. I joined the 19 from the Blue Council led by Shottier, which broke away from the core group, but when I started having doubts, Shottier needed leverage to keep me involved. You see, I am the historian. It was my responsibility to find out how the man had lived so long in the gunpowder magazine. I have a special skill in researching such matters. They needed Mosset’s involvement so that he would send you on assignment to St. Augustine where Shottier could use you as leverage against me if the need arose. Harvey Shottier had Dr. Bernice Fine killed to make room for a new member. Mosset became one of the 19 members of the Blue Council who splintered from the 39.” His face twisted in pain, and he shut his eyes momentarily. “Once they blackmailed me to bring in Sabine, they made the connection with her missing middle finger; just like Pinot LeFlore’s finger was gone. That was the answer.” He gasped, coughed again, this time spewing blood. “You have to...sacrifice a finger to the creature in order to get the extension of life.”

  “We’ve got to call an ambulance,” Sherri said tearfully, looking up at Curt.

  “No,” Sydney said. “It’s too late. Harvey stabbed me with a knife an hour ago. I’m done. Nothing can stop that. I’ve lost too much blood.”

  “But the Fish...it can prolong life,” Sherri said. “Maybe it can save you?”

  “Sherri,” Sydney looked up at her with bloodshot eyes, disregarding her comment, “the Fish has powers. You need to get it out of the water, take it with you. It may help you save Tina. My life is over.”

  “Uncle Sydney, no,” Sherri pleaded.

  The feeble man grabbed Sherri’s arm. “Please, listen to me. You have to get the Fish out. Once it’s dry, it will become a skeleton again. Take it with you to Dekle Beach. You must take it with you. It may help you to save your daughter if you can find a way to destroy it. Sabine LeFlore is with her at Harvey Shottier’s house. The woman is blind from her incarceration in the Castillo, and she is insane and extremely violent.” He paused as another wave of pain hit him. “At the moment, she’s sedated only a few feet away from where Tina is tied to a chair. This is the photograph Shottier emailed me.” He withdrew a crumpled page from his shirt pocket and handed it to Sherri. Bowing her head, she held it out with a trembling hand for Curt and Scott to see.

  In it, Tina was bound in a chair on the right. On the floor, a long silver object at the left edge of the photograph was mostly out of frame. Next to it, a raggedly clothed woman lay on the floor, eyes closed. Sabine LeFlore. Her skin was ashen, her long, black, disheveled hair covered her face. Near her was a knife with a serrated blade.

  “The sedative will wear off by 2 a.m. Once it does, and she realizes Tina is in the room with her...” Sydney cringed once more from the pain. “Harvey swore if I gave him the information and brought in Sabine that he’d release her. The bastard lied. You’ve got to get there to save Tina before Sabine awakes. The bracelet that Shottier had Jeannie Coy give Tina has a homing signal.”

  “What about those others? Are they going to stay asleep?” Curt asked.

  Sydney looked to Curt with glazed eyes. “Mr. Lohan, you’re the archaeologist,” he said weakly. “Yes, they will remain asleep for a while. It’s an induced slumber. It’s part of the transformation to longevity once their fingers were sacrificed.”

  “Curt, Sherri,” Scott said, looking up from his iPhone. His expression was bleak. “Dekle Beach is across the state on the Gulf Coast. It’s a three-hour drive by car, and it’s also where the first hurricane will make landfall.”

  Sydney closed his eyes and his body went slack.

  Sherri shook him, “Uncle Sydney!”

  Sydney’s eyes fluttered open. He faded in and out of consciousness.

  “We have to get the Fish and take it with us,” Curt said. He turned and looked around the room, spotting a ladder off to the side. He lifted it, turned, and walked it to the edge of the plastic pool, where Scott helped him lower it. Below, the Fish swam to the base and looked up menacingly. Curt noticed for the first time that the water was discolored.

  “No! It will rip you to shreds! It’s already eaten Jeannie Coy!” Sydney yelled as strongly as he could.

  “Tina’s babysitter?!”

  He turned weakly toward Sherri. “Jeannie had also seceded from the original Blue Council. Now, Dear, help me up.”

  “But—”

  Sydney coughed. “Every minute we waste means greater danger to your daughter.”

  Sherri heaved, lifting Sydney to a crouched position where he remained doubled over, clutching his stomach. Aided by Sherri, Sydney lumbered to the edge of the pool next to the two men.

  “Uncle Sydney, how can we get it out if we can’t go in?” she asked with desperation in her voice.

  Sydney seemed to appraise the Fish below. “Move me around the edge.”

  Sherri and Curt assisted him a quarter of the way around. “This…is good.” Sydney hacked a mouthful of blood into the pool. Where it landed below, the Fish reacted in a frenzy, slicing through the water and devouring the substance in an instant.

  “Sydney, how do we get it out?” Curt emphasized Sherri’s unanswered question.

  Instead of answering, he turned to Sherri. “I love you, Sherri. Tell my grandniece I love her, too.”

  Sherri looked at her uncle in confusion.

  Sydney Couperin leapt into the pool landing far below in the shallow water with a thump and a splash. A horrific mêlée ensued. The Fish moved with lightning speed, assaulting the man with tenacity, ripping at his flesh so quickly, there was nothing more than a blur of razor-sharp teeth. Sydney’s grunts and moans of agony caused Sherri to clap her hands over her ears and turn away crying.

  Sydney had landed with a roll and was now crawling to the middle of the pool, but he was disintegrating, growing lower in the water as he clutched and stretched forward. The roiling, blood-soaked water began to distort the view of the man, and by the time he reached the center of the pool, the last of his back fell below the murky surface. The water went eerily still.

  Curt and Scott stood mesmerized, watching the morose end of Sydney Couperin. He was gone, clothing and all. It had all happened in a matter of seconds.

  Sherri was weeping as she came to Curt’s side. He was still looking into the water mystified by what he had just witnessed.

  She tucked her head into Curt’s shoulder. “Why would he do that?” she cried.

  “Look!” Scott said.

  Curt and Sherri looked at the Fish, which was struggling in the water. Its top dorsal fin was now exposed, and it began to shed its scales. In the center of the pool, a small vortex of water flowed downward.

  “He reached the drain plug, Sherri. That’s why he did it,” Curt said quietly, embracing her as she sobbed.

  For several minutes, the Fish reacted, jetting from one side of the pool to the other, searching for deeper water, but none was to be had. Its dorsal fin and part of its back were now exposed to air and had regressed to skeletal form.

  When the last bit of water was gone, the Fish lay flapping on its side, its eyes bulging. The more it flapped, the drier it became. When it finally went still, there were two loud pops and the eyes burst into white powder, leaving only a small skeletal frame, looking exactly as they had last left it in Professor Marvin Sellon’s oven.

  “Where is Marvin?” Curt suddenly considered him.

  Scott must have been thinking the same thing. He turned away from the pool and moved toward a small door in the far wall which they had noticed upon entering the room but had not checked. When he reached it, he turned the handle, revealing a deep walk-in closet. Marvin was squatting in a back corner rocking on his heels. He looked up, startled and slightly apprehensive as the light flooded in. When he recognized them, a flood of re
lief washed over his face.

  “Thank God. How did you guys find me?” he said.

  “It’s a long story, and we don’t have time to explain now.” Scott helped Marvin up.

  Curt and Sherri returned to the pool. Sherri held onto the ladder as Curt descended. He retrieved the skeletal creature and returned up the ladder.

  Off to the side, the Blue Council men and women remained unconscious.

  “What happened?” Marvin asked, looking about the room.

  “Not now,” Scott said, escorting him toward the elevator. “We don’t know how long these people will stay asleep.”

  Curt was surprised to see Scott hesitate as he looked back across the room, then race over to the table. He reached underneath on the ground and lifted an electronic device the size of a paperback book from the floor.

  “What is it?” Curt asked.

  “The tracking meter, but it’s been damaged. Shottier, no doubt. If we can get it working, we can get a positive fix on Tina.” Scott shoved it in his pocket.

  The four returned to ground level and left the building. Outside, a gust of wind met them head on. They climbed into Curt’s Mustang, Scott and Marvin taking the back seat, and drove off.

  “Scott,” Curt spoke urgently as he tucked the Fish skeleton in his shirt. “You said it will take us three hours to drive to Dekle Beach?”

  Scott tinkered with his iPhone for a minute. “Three hours and six minutes, but we’ve only got two hours left until Hurricane Elena makes landfall there. It’s nothing like the Category 5 Hurricane Fernando that’s going to strike here in the morning, but if Shottier’s place is near the beach, the storm surge—”

  “I know,” Curt cut him off.

  Curt looked to Sherri beside him. Despair was etched on her face. “Scott, you’ve got to find out where Harvey Shottier’s house is on Deckle Beach. You should be able to find it on the property appraisers’ website for that county.”

  “I’m on the site now.” He paused. “Damn, it won’t let me search by name, but it’s a small seaside community with only 36 homes. I’ll look them up one at a time if I have to.”

  “Curt,” Sherri said, laying a hand on his arm, “there’s not enough time to drive there. Sabine may revive even before the hurricane hits.” She drew a deep inhale, and released it. “Head back to St. Augustine. There’s a small airport on the outskirts of town. I can fly us there.”

  Curt looked at her for a moment then slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop. He turned the Mustang around and gunned the engine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Wednesday, August 17, 11:51 p.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Not unexpectedly, when they turned into the Northeast Florida Regional Airport entrance, the gates were locked. Dark buildings lay beyond. The small airport accommodated private planes only; no commercial flights. All operations had been shut down in anticipation of the impending hurricane.

  Curt stopped the Mustang.

  She had not considered that the airport would be closed and inaccessible. She felt queasy thinking of that crazed woman so close to her little girl.

  “I’ve got to get to her, Curt,” Sherri said in a tearful voice.

  “And you will.” Curt jammed the gears into reverse, and backed up across the four-lane highway. With the mandatory evacuation six hours old, the road was clear in either direction.

  “Hold on,” Curt said, smashing the accelerator. The Mustang’s tires squealed and dug in, sending the car barreling toward the gate. The gate flew apart on impact, and the windshield on the passenger side cracked. Sherri screamed as Curt slammed on the brakes and came to a sliding stop once they were through. His right headlight no longer worked.

  For a moment, the car was quiet as they all gathered their breath.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Marvin asked.

  “I have a friend who’s flown me around the state,” Curt replied. “I know where his plane is kept and where the keys are.”

  Curt drove past a series of buildings, a lone headlight stabbing into the darkness. They emerged onto a large asphalt parking area where he turned right and continued past the next building, then angled back to the right again. Normally, small planes would be sitting on the tarmac before them, but now all planes had been stored in the hangars.

  Curt stopped before the second large structure, a metal building with a corrugated roof. The foursome got out of the Mustang. Curt moved to his trunk and retrieved wire cutters.

  “Always carry those around in your car?” Marvin asked.

  “I’m an archaeologist. My trunk is a bag of tricks.”

  Curt proceeded to the padlocked side door and quickly dispensed with the lock. Inside the spacious hangar, he flipped the light on. The other three followed him. There were six small planes aimed toward the large hangar door. Curt found a switch to the side and punched it. The box high on the ceiling whirred, followed by the clinking of metal sprockets and chains, and the wide hangar bay door slowly lifted.

  “That’s it up front,” Curt pointed.

  Sherri recognized the single-prop plane with its thirty-five-foot wingspan and logo: Cessna 350 Corvalis. “Perfect, that’s what I was trained on,” she said. Her dread of flying without an instructor under these horrific conditions was being slowly nudged aside by rising determination.

  “You guys push it out, and I’ll get the key,” Curt said.

  Curt retreated to a back room. Scott, Marvin, and Sherri moved the chucks from under the wheels and pushed the plane out onto the dark tarmac. Curt returned in a few moments. “Got it.”

  In the distance, they could hear sirens approaching.

  “I guess the gate was monitored,” Scott said. “Whatever police are left in town will be here in minutes.”

  “Hopefully, we won’t,” Curt said. He handed the key to Sherri, who hesitated. The reality of what she was about to do caused her confidence to dip.

  “You okay?” he said.

  The sirens grew louder. She exhaled, trying to strengthen her resolve. “I’m fine. Let’s go,” she said, snatching the key from his hand as a gust of wind blew her red hair across her face.

  After a quick external check of the prop, flaps, ailerons, elevators, and rudder, she unlocked the door and they all climbed in. Curt took the front passenger seat, and Scott and Marvin sat in the back seats. The familiar interior was no different than most luxury automobiles: hand-stitched, leather bucket seats with a console separating the front seats.

  Sherri did not want the others to notice her angst. She had decided long before they reached the airport not to admit she was unlicensed to fly. She exhaled quietly and thought of Tina. The safety of her daughter was her driving force. It was the focus that would have to get her through this.

  She started the engine and the prop fired to life, spiraling steadily. Sherri closed her eyes momentarily to concentrate, suppressing the surge of adrenaline. Then she adjusted the compass rows to match the directional heading, set the altimeter, and moved the trim to takeoff position.

  “Is there an air traffic control tower here?” she turned to Curt.

  “No, you monitor air traffic yourself on the radio.”

  “Got it. Flying VFR.”

  “Huh?” Curt said.

  “Technical term,” she said. “We’re not going to have any traffic. Everyone has fled the storm. No one would be stupid enough to hang around.”

  “No one but us,” Scott added.

  Sherri found the tower frequency and clicked the microphone several times.

  “What are you doing?” Curt asked.

  Sherri pointed. A dual set of blue taxiway lights lit up before them, leading to white runway lights. “It’s how you turn the lights on when no one’s working the tower.”

  Sherri taxied ahead, checking one of the monitors for a three-digit code for
Dekle Beach, Florida. As she suspected, the town was too small for an airport. “Scott, I need you to go on the Internet and give me the latitude and longitude for Dekle Beach.”

  “On it,” Scott responded.

  “The runway is one-and-a-half miles long,” Curt explained. “If I recall from my buddy, this thing can takeoff in under a half mile.”

  “We have plenty of room. Everybody buckled in?” Sherri asked, unable to hide the nervous undertone in her voice. To everyone’s credit, no one said a word. Curt placed his hand on hers. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said reassuringly.

  She looked down at the avionics suite for situational awareness. “We don’t have a full tank of gas, but it should be plenty to get us there and back. Winds are out of the northwest. That’s good for takeoff.” She hesitated, mentally trying to recall if she had missed anything. There was no instructor here to stop her. A mistake now would cost the foursome their lives.

  A rush of red and blue twirling lights suddenly burst between the buildings onto the tarmac, sirens wailing. Sherri pushed the throttle to increase the RPMs and released the brakes. The Cessna lurched ahead onto the runway. Her heart was thumping. Beads of sweat broke out on her face as she increased speed. The two police cars split when they reached the first building. One turned right, the other left. The officer on the left must have spied the small moving plane, and with squealing tires, raced down a perpendicular taxiway to intercept them. Several more police cars appeared and followed behind.

  “Sherri, you gotta pick up speed,” Curt said, obviously trying hard to mask his urgency.

  In her peripheral vision, Sherri saw the squad car, its lights ablaze, cutting through the night. The plane’s tires droned along the runway as the wind met them head on. She gazed at the airspeed indicator. They had to reach rotation speed before she could lift off. She was nowhere close to the velocity they needed to be.

  “I’m going as fast as I can!”

  “We’re not going to make it,” Scott said anxiously, leaning forward, peering out the side window.