“What do we do?” Sherri whispered back.
Curt very slowly knelt and placed the shotgun on the floor. The French woman regarded each sound with suspicion. Her dirty, sweat-ridden face remained a veil of confusion.
“You said you know some French?” he asked Sherri.
“Some, but it’s been awhile. I can’t speak it fluently.”
“Can you say, ‘I am her mother’?”
Sherri took a moment to respond. “Je suis sa mère,” she whispered.
Curt looked from Tina to Sabine. He took one quiet step forward.
Sabine heard his approach. She compacted into the corner as far as she could, clutching Tina. Tina was more like a rag doll in her grasp than a human child. The little girl began to tremble.
“Curt, please,” Sherri pleaded. “She’s going to hurt my baby.”
“Say it now, Sherri. Say it softly.”
A look of bewilderment washed over Sabine.
“Je suis sa mère,” Sherri said, almost in tears.
Sabine twisted slightly, cocking her head. It was surely the first French she had heard from another human in centuries. Curt thought he saw a mild flash of relief, but it disappeared quickly.
Sherri needed no urging from Curt. “Je suis sa mère,” she said again slowly, compassionately.
Sabine’s eyes stopped moving. She was less distracted now. Curt saw signs of understanding. Sabine’s body language loosened. She swallowed and, for the first time, looked almost sheepish.
“Take a step toward her and squat down. Then say it again.”
Sherri did, moving slowly. “Sabine, je suis sa mere.”
Sabine crooked her head one way, then the other. She sniffed the air like an animal checking for scents. A distant crack of lightning caused her to cringe, but then she relaxed again. She nuzzled Tina’s hair. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Curt thought he saw tears forming in Sabine’s pale eyes.
Then, without fanfare, Sabine LeFlore opened her arms.
Sherri cautiously stepped forward and latched onto her daughter’s outstretched hands, lifting her up and away.
Sabine seemed to wilt. She put her hands on the floor at her sides and slowly released the knife. Even through lifeless eyes, Curt could sense her pain. She folded up into a tiny ball in the corner, shaking.
Tina scaled her mother’s body, wrapping her arms and legs tightly around Sherri. The two locked in a strong embrace only a mother and child could share.
Curt smiled. At the same time he felt sadness for Sabine. She was a woman out of her own time, deeply confused. It must be a hellish nightmare.
Just then a deep thumping sound began to build. At first Curt thought it was thunder, but it went on for too long and grew louder by the second. He left the room and moved down the short hallway to the doorway leading outside into the dark, stormy night.
A bright light chased the darkness away. The thumping sound turned deafening. When Curt felt the constant flush of air rushing inside the lighthouse hallway, he knew a helicopter was landing. The light on the ground shrank in girth as the craft lowered. For the first time, Curt saw it as it touched down in the grass.
Scott had done it. They were minutes away from being flown to safety. Elation and relief rushed through Curt.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Thursday, August 18, 4:22 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
Scott moved to the back of the building and found a small, high window taped in an X. He waited on the sporadic lightning flashes for light. On the next burst, he spotted a broken red brick at the base of the building.
It only took one strike to break the window. The masking tape worked to his advantage, stopping the glass from shattering. Several more whacks, and he easily had the entire window removed without any shards or jagged edges to contend with.
Scott climbed through the window, favoring his shoulder. He found himself in a bathroom. After more flashes of lightning, he found the door.
He reached the showroom; his movement dictated by the glow of lightning which seeped in through the windows. He stayed to the wall until he found a door. Thankfully, it was unlocked.
The room Scott entered was completely dark. By feel alone, Scott found a desk and knew he was in an office. It was a welcome revelation. With any luck, it was one of the sales associates’ offices.
When Scott was young, his Uncle Lance worked at a used car lot in Jacksonville. Scott recalled his uncle always kept a flashlight handy for potential customers who wanted to examine car engines. More often than not, the customer had no idea what they were looking for, so salespeople made it a point to comply. It was a way of gaining the customer’s trust by showing they had nothing to hide. Keeping a flashlight was common practice in the business. Scott hoped the tradition was still in practice.
He skimmed his fingers along the desktop, accidentally brushing off some papers. A creak coming from the showroom caused Scott to freeze in place. He listened for more sounds. When he heard none, he felt his way to the front of the desk. He found a chair on wheels and took a seat. There were three drawers, all on the right side of the desk. To his chagrin, the first two were locked. The bottom, and deepest, drawer opened with a wooden scrape. The first thing he felt was a long cylindrical object.
His spirits leapt a moment later when he found the on switch of the flashlight.
Now to find the box that was sure to be hung on the showroom wall.
****
Sherri came to Curt’s side in the doorway. Tina was cradled in her arms as she awkwardly held onto the box of shotgun shells. Outside, the rain had slackened. “Thank God,” Sherri said, watching the helicopter.
Curt remained mute.
The instant she saw the pilot, her heart sank in disbelief. “That’s Mosset. It’s the Blue Council!” she shouted over the drumming of the rotors. Curt slammed the door, and they retreated back up the short hallway. He darted into the room and Sherri followed.
“Help me!” he shouted as he began pushing the heavy desk.
“Hold on,” Sherri said to Tina. She placed her daughter on the desktop and put the shotgun shells at her feet. Sabine was still cowering in the corner. With difficulty, Sherri and Curt were able to move the heavy, antique oak desk, with Tina riding atop, into the hallway, and in front of the door.
Something hit the door from the outside. Then there was a series of bangs. Disgruntled voices spoke indistinguishable words.
“This way. Let’s go!” Curt said.
Sherri grabbed Tina’s hand, and they returned to the room.
“Mommy, what’s going on?” Tina’s swollen eyes rimmed with tears.
Curt picked up the shotgun and box of shells.
Sherri walked over to Sabine who remained huddled in the corner, her dirty knees drawn up, hands holding them in place, rocking. Sherri thought of a quick way to get her message across with French words she could remember. “Sabine, venez s’il vous plait. Menace ici.” Sabine, please come. Threat here.
Sabine did not budge. Sherri repeated the message. Still, there was no trace of understanding.
“Sherri, we’ve got to go.”
Eying the woman, Sherri reluctantly allowed Curt to pull her away with Tina grabbing her other hand.
Together, the threesome dashed from the room. Curt led them into the base of the hollow tower and up a sweeping cement staircase that led to the first of eight wall-braced staircases which corkscrewed to the top of the lighthouse.
Sherri had visited the lighthouse several times as a child. As one of many featured attractions of St. Augustine, she had studied it last weekend in preparation for this assignment. She recalled each staircase had 28 iron steps separated from the next staircase by a landing, which was also made of steel. In all, there were 219 steps. The landings were aligned vertically. At the top, a door led to a walkway which wrapped aro
und the outside of the beacon.
Sherri and Tina traipsed up the steel stairs following Curt. Sherri held her daughter’s hand, thankful she was unharmed, yet knowing they were still very much in danger.
The candlelight emanating from the room where Tina had been held captive failed to reach up into the tower. They made their way through the darkness to the first, second, and then third landing before stopping to rest. Below, Sherri could hear the continual banging against the outer door. So far, the desk was keeping the Blue Council at bay.
Lightning ripped into the darkness through one of the few tower windows. Rain had misted the glass, which appeared to have subsided for the moment.
“Why are we going up?” Sherri asked. She tried to mask her concern for Tina’s sake.
Curt led them through the shadows and up the next clockwise set of metal steps before answering. “I have a theory. We know the creature in my shirt will come alive in freshwater. We also know Professor Sellon gave his life trying to get the Fish in saltwater, but something went wrong.” Curt paused.
“That still doesn’t answer my question.”
Curt continued across the fourth landing, walking the ten feet to the next set of spiraling stairs. Sherri was relieved to see him strike a match. The light was feeble, but it was better than nothing. “I believe that just as freshwater revives the Fish; saltwater will inactivate it and might even destroy it. If we can get to the top, we might be able to get it to the ocean.”
“Curt, we’re across the street from the inlet. How are you going to get it there?”
“I’m working on it.”
They continued on to the fifth and sixth landings before stopping. While scaling the iron steps, it was impossible to hear much more than the clinking of their own feet. Now the structure had gone strangely quiet. The Blue Council had either abandoned their attempts to get inside or they were forging a new strategy. Unfortunately, Sherri knew it was the latter.
Curt struck another match. “I’m down to just a few. This is the last one I’m lighting for now.”
They continued to press upward. Tina was so frazzled and tired that Sherri lifted her into her arms. Each step had to be taken slowly, cautiously, to ensure footing. The match burned out just before they reached the seventh, and last, landing. They paused in the darkness on the flat metal surface to catch their breath.
One more set of stairs, and they would be at the top.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Thursday, August 18, 4:40 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
Not for the first time, Curt wondered what had happened to Scott. Had the Blue Council gotten to him? The thought was too grim to consider.
He felt his way along the landing in the dark. Lightning flickered through a small window on the opposite side, briefly exposing the area. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure on his left.
Tina Falco screamed.
Waiting in the blackness, braced against the wall, was a large man.
Reacting out of fear, Curt raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The blast was earsplitting. Aided by the strobe of lightning, Curt saw the buckshot tear into the man’s neck. The weapon kicked, then all went dark again as the lightning subsided. Curt breathed heavily, waiting for the thud from the corpse falling to the landing. It never came.
A succession of lightning flashes illuminated the landing once again. The mutilated body appeared as a headless apparition.
Sherri and Tina both screamed.
“Curt, oh my God!” Sherri yelled as Tina bawled.
Curt listened but heard nothing: no grunts, no sounds of agony from the wounded man. He kept the shotgun trained ahead in the darkness, propped on his arm as he held the box of shells. His hands were trembling. “Sherri,” Curt whispered, “can you reach inside my right pants pocket and pull out the matches?”
“I think so.”
Curt heard her reposition Tina. He felt her hand grappling inside his pocket. She withdrew the pack and struck a match. It took a second for the flame to settle. The two-dimensional, black-and-white image before them showed a man in period clothing; a man minus his cut-out head.
“Jesus Christ,” Curt released a sigh of relief. “Who in their right mind puts up a life-sized cutout of a man on the seventh landing of a lighthouse?”
Sherri offered bemused and relieved comfort to Tina. “It’s okay, Tina. Mr. Curt saved us.”
Curt lowered the shotgun. He strolled over to the torn figure and read the inscription on the wooden plaque in the scant light:
Henry “Hank” R. Mears
Lighthouse Keeper 1889 – 1968
“Same occupation as my ex-wife: light housekeeper.” He looked down at the tattered cardboard head that he had blown off from the main body. “This may be exactly what we needed.” He grabbed it and rose awkwardly, holding it in the same hand as the box of shells. “Let’s go.”
“You lead,” Sherri said, “in case we run into any more cardboard figures.”
On the abbreviated eighth landing at the top of the stairs, Sherri blew out the match. They stopped. The surface area was much smaller than the other seven landings, and it was obvious its sole function was to lead through a door to the outside walk. Curt propped the shotgun beside the door and laid the box of shells on the deck.
“Now what are we going to do?”
“Well, in a minute I’m going onto the walkway. You and Tina stay here,” he said, finding Sherri’s hand in the dark and taking back the book of matches.
As if on ominous cue, the wind screeched outside.
“In this weather?” Sherri asked.
He struck another match. “It’s time to get rid of this Fish, Sherri.”
With that, Curt handed Sherri the lit match. She lowered Tina to the deck before accepting it. Curt withdrew the small skeleton from his shirt and removed it from the plastic bag, which he tucked in his pocket. He studied the creature momentarily. “This definitely goes down as one of the strangest summers of my life,” he smiled at Sherri, “although it hasn’t been all bad.”
She returned the smile in the dim light. “We’re about 40 yards from the beach with a street in between. How do you intend to get it there?”
Curt took the cardboard head of Henry “Hank” R. Mears. He tore off another chunk, and gently wedged it into the midsection of the skeleton. By rocking it back and forth, it fit snugly and securely in place.
“God willing, if it’s not raining, and the wind is right, it’s going to fly there,” Curt said. He pushed open the door and was accosted by a display of lightning from every direction. The air around him crackled, and the hair on the base of his neck rose. The storm’s severity had increased exponentially, but the rain had temporarily ceased. He moved onto the deck and grabbed the handrail, fighting against the stiff breeze. As he had hoped, with the outer winds just reaching the coast, and the fact that the eye of the counterclockwise-spinning hurricane was aimed north of St. Augustine, the wind was gusting outward, toward the Atlantic Ocean. From this height, with the strong tailwind, the Fish should easily reach the sea.
He turned back to see Sherri and Tina watching him.
Curt held the now-aerodynamic Fish high over his head and let it go with the next gust of wind. The thing sailed off beautifully, riding the wind, gliding effortlessly. The skies remained a dark, dirty gray, occasionally illuminated by the chain of lightning stabbing through the clouds. Following the path of the Fish was not easy. Yet, with each flash, Curt could tell it was heading exactly as he had hoped, staying aloft and traveling outward.
Sherri edged out on the walkway to see, making Tina stay inside. “It’s there. It’s over the water!”
As the words left her mouth, the small skeleton in the distance suddenly glowed blue like a beacon for them to track.
“Huh, that’s interesting,” Curt said, not sure what to make of the ligh
t. A little voice told him it was not good.
They watched the Fish continue away from shore. Based on its height, it was difficult to judge exactly where it was in relation to the water.
“Why isn’t it coming down?” Sherri asked.
Unfortunately, it was a valid question. A bad feeling settled in the pit of Curt’s stomach. He turned to her. “At this rate, it’ll cross over to Africa and miss the Atlantic.”
“Oh my God, I don’t believe this,” she cried, pointing.
Curt could read it in her eyes. He did not have to look to know something was horribly wrong.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Thursday, August 18, 5:05 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida
The Fish, with its cardboard wings and ambient blue glow, looked as it had, gently sliding off the coast into oblivion. Steady concentration, however, revealed the bitter truth. It was growing larger.
“It’s coming back!” Sherri shouted above the howl of the wind.
“It can’t be! The wind is blowing out!” Curt watched in amazed disappointment as the airborne Fish navigated the wind stream, sailing toward them. Now, unlike before, it was quickly losing altitude.
“It’s falling!” Sherri said.
Curt looked down. Not only was the creature angling toward the foot of the lighthouse, but a pack of the Blue Council awaited its arrival not far from the helicopter. Curt saw Harvey Shottier laughing as he eyed the incoming prize.
For the first time tonight, he felt defeat creeping into his soul.
The Fish was adroitly snagged by Park Ranger Justice Loustein. He ripped away the cardboard then looked up. His eyes glowed in the next round of lightning flashes. He lifted the Fish high over his head in triumph.
Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1) Page 28
