His mind switched subjects. Again he thought of the bizarre events at the springs yesterday as he attempted to disperse his father’s ashes. The timing of the two had been disturbing. Was it possible Dr. Falls had come to Green Cove Springs because of what had happened yesterday with the body parts being expelled from the springs? He doubted it. The remains were a police matter, not one of archaeological interest. Someone either swam down into the spring and perished, or they had been murdered and their body thrown in, although Tolen’s common sense told him it would be nearly impossible to get a body lodged low in the natural well due to the force of the water rushing to the surface. Regardless, he was certain the incident had nothing to do with Dr. Falls’ presence in town.
The constant drone of the boat motor allowed his mind to wander, and an unwelcomed memory emerged; one that had repeated itself often over the last four months.
Tolen had a unique skill; one he had not learned but which was a result of heredity. His father Jaspar was gifted with it, too: the aural equivalent of photographic memory. When Tolen heard something, whether a sound or words, he not only remembered it verbatim, he recalled the exact intonation, dialect, and cadence. To him, it was like having an audio recorder in his mind. Over the years, this skill had given him a tremendous advantage. In college, he never had to take notes in class. In his occupation, anything he was told by superiors or heard on assignment remained locked in his mind. Tolen had been able to master seven languages.
Yet for all the benefits this unique trait had brought him, he now found it to be a curse. The events of four months ago, when he had arrived at the Nebraska farmhouse of Monty and Elsie Jackson, would not fade. In particular, the gruesome sight of the couple viciously attacked in their bedroom where Mr. Jackson was decapitated and his wife gutted and left to die. It was Elsie Jackson’s words that remained transfixed in Samuel Tolen’s mind. As hard as he tried to purge Elsie Jackson’s words from his memory, they remain firmly locked in place.
“Don’t let them meet.”
The intonation had been unmistakable. It was Jaspar Tolen’s voice he heard that cold day in Nebraska as he watched Elsie Jackson die. As hard as he tried to justify that she had been in the throes of death and that her voice might have been altered because of her heinous condition, it still did not account for the fact that Tolen had heard his father speak. His auditory recall ability wouldn’t allow any bending of the facts. What he had heard was what he heard, but his rational side refused to accept it. This inner conflict was more unsettling than Tolen would admit to himself. There had to be some reasonable explanation. Besides, what was Elsie Jackson trying to tell him? “Don’t let them meet.” Don’t let who meet?
Even now, riding the St. Johns River in broad daylight with the motor roaring, Tolen could acutely hear the woman reciting the words in Jaspar Tolen’s voice, and it caused a shudder to run down his spine.
Tolen shook the memory away as he entered Palmo Cove heading due east. The St. Johns Palmo Cove was a large body of water tucked outside the elbow where the river turned. Since it was away from the main channel and bordered by marsh and swamps, the treeline to the southwest helped to knock down the wind this morning, making the water calmer here. Tolen increased speed, gliding the boat effortlessly over the glassy surface.
The cove connected to two deepwater channels that cut inland. To the southeast, the waterway funneled into Six Mile Creek. To the north was Trout Creek. Tolen elected to investigate Trout Creek first.
He directed the craft to the left, eventually passing through the mouth into the narrowing waterway. A short distance in, he passed under a small roadway bridge and pulled up to Pacetti’s Fishcamp. He moored to one of the small docks and inquired about Dr. Falls and the graduate assistant with folks in the bait and tackle shop as well as some people fishing on the docks. No one had seen strangers that fit their descriptions.
Tolen climbed back in the Bayliner and left Trout Creek. He headed back into Palmo Cove and steered toward Six Mile Creek. By now, the sun was beating down with full force, and the boat traffic on the water had increased. Across the way, at the end of the cove, several boats lay at anchor while the occupants fished. Above, an osprey majestically rode the moving air, graceful and strong.
As he crossed the wide berth of the cove, Tolen thought of Jade Mollur. Their ordeal with the stolen Sudarium last year had spawned a close relationship that Tolen had not expected. When Tolen returned from Europe and terminated his father’s life per his living will, Jade had flown in to spend time with him. During his time of sorrow, she was welcome company. He was an only child and had experienced a deep sadness at the loss. With Jade’s comforting support, Samuel Tolen soon came to terms with his father’s passing.
Yet, since then, the physical distance that separated Tolen and Jade made their relationship tenuous. Jade resided in London, where she worked for the British Museum as a field researcher. True to her word, she had returned to excavate both the cave in Costa Rica and the underground cave on the Greek Isle of Patmos, yet she had been unsuccessful due to the damage sustained at each site. Tolen, on the other hand, had started his work supporting the Smithsonian. While technically still a CIA agent, his assignment to the Smithsonian had been ordered by President Gretchen Fane. Tolen found the job nearly as rigorous and demanding as his work as an operative, yet he embraced it with the passion of someone who loved to immerse himself in history—and rightfully so. Although his primary role was to provide security for dig sites and the transport of historical objects to the Smithsonian, he also had the opportunity to participate in some interesting excavations.
The Bayliner slipped into the still waters of Six Mile Creek. The generous channel was bordered by swamp and hardwood trees on either side which shadowed the edges. Ahead, a large log near the bank rolled slightly in the boat’s wake, and two large turtles spilled into the water, spooked by his approach. Tolen notched the speed down to a crawl, conforming to the no-wake zone. A gray heron on the right bank took flight with a squawk. The creek seemed paused in time, as wild and unencumbered as when William Bartram had explored this area of the river in the 1700s.
Soon, a quarter-mile-long dock that paralleled the left edge of the creek came into view. It originated ahead at the Outback Crab Shack, and stretched toward the mouth of the creek, welcoming patrons to the restaurant with ample boat docking space while maintaining a cushion next to the tree-clogged wetlands. The floating dock was kept in place by metal rings hooked over tall piles to the inside of the dock and allowed the entire structure to float up and down with the tidal water. Tolen noticed that today’s activity was typical for a summer Saturday. Although still morning, the boats moored to the dock were starting to stack up as people sought the riverside ambience of the restaurant’s outdoor patio. By noon, boats—everything from small crafts to large fishing vessels to airboats and even pontoon planes—would clog the 1500-foot-long dock.
Tolen continued to idle, inspecting the vessels tied to the dock as he went. Where the dock ended, he passed the restaurant on the left. Already, the large outdoor deck was teeming with customers and waitstaff.
Continuing, he navigated under the roadway bridge of State Road 13 that traversed Six Mile Creek. From there, the no-wake zone ended, and Tolen picked up speed, careful to follow the meandering and ever-narrowing channel. Once past the restaurant, civilization succumbed to nature once again.
Farther and farther he went, occasionally passing an anchored boat on one of the many bends. The waterway might be called Six Mile Creek, but Tolen knew the name was deceptive. In reality, he was able to ingress about one mile before the channel narrowed, and natural debris, including branches and limbs, floated on the surface as they were pushed up creek with each incoming tide. The channel depth also grew erratic, and underwater obstacles made it too dangerous to continue. Ahead, the channel narrowed to little more than a dozen feet, and, while it did eventually carry back six miles, it wa
s unnavigable for anything more than a canoe.
Without any sign of Dr. Lila Falls and her assistant, Tolen turned the Bayliner around and steered back to the main river channel.
CHAPTER 9
Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission officer, Melanie Canstar, gunned the motor, sending a flume of spray behind the boat as she glided by Pacetti Point on the west side of the river channel. After hearing about the events at Spring Park yesterday, she was hyper-vigilant as she patrolled the water. Although it was possible that whatever happened to the man that caused his body to be torn apart was an accident of some sort, the notion of foul play remained keenly in the forefront of her mind.
The officer crossed the channel west to Bayard Point. Situated at the inside crux where the St. Johns River turns hard to the northwest, Bayard Point was unusual in that a large section of the woodland was elevated, surrounded by swamp. The plateau was an aberration visible from miles away.
As she neared the shoreline, she spotted a white Sea Ray. It was nestled onto a sliver of sand bank, hooded by overhanging brush. The craft was beige with a deep-V bow. It was backed in, with only the front half of the vessel visible.
Canstar abruptly slowed the boat to idle, searching for the occupants. The boat appeared empty, but at that distance, it was hard to tell.
“Hello,” she shouted, expecting to see some movement. “Anyone here?” There was no response. The only reason someone would purposely beach there is if they were having boat troubles, although, to back the boat into the underbrush was odd.
Officer Canstar steered toward the craft, closing the gap quickly. She dropped back into idle as she neared the bank. The breeze coming off shore brought the unwelcome stench of stagnant river water from the swamp beyond.
“Anyone in the white Sea Ray?” she called out.
Nothing.
“Hello,” she shouted louder. “You, on the Sea Ray, are you all right?”
A fish broke the water to her right, leaving a surface boil. Canstar turned to see the surface disturbance then glanced at her depth finder. The depth was adequate, and she deemed it safe to idle inward.
As she drew close, she half expected to find someone lying injured on the floorboard, yet she found the craft empty. It was possible that the boat had run aground, and the occupants were thrown clear, although that would not explain the boat’s reverse position. A quick inspection of the nearby brush turned up nothing. Canstar noticed that a life vest lay neatly folded in two on the back bench seat. Also, scuba diving equipment was stored in good order.
Canstar used the electric tilt to raise her prop as the water shallowed. She pulled against the other boat’s bow, tying off at the front cleat. She continued to inspect the equipment in the boat. If the driver had engine trouble and had been picked up by another boater, surely they wouldn’t have left the expensive scuba gear. None of this made sense.
She examined the registration sticker and determined the boat was a rental. After radioing the information in to the local FWC station, Canstar untied from the Sea Ray’s bow and used an oar to turn her own boat around in the shallow water. She harnessed nylon rope from the back cleat of her boat to the front underside cleat of the second vessel. A quick start of the engine, an easy acceleration, and the beached boat should pull free from the foliage.
Starting the engine, Canstar eased the prop back into the water at a shallow angle, then idled her boat away, allowing the lengthy rope to tighten slowly until it became taut. In deeper water now, she lowered the prop all the way. Canstar checked to ensure there was no boat traffic and gently pushed the accelerator lever forward. The beached vessel refused to pull free, and her boat began to rise up on plane. She thrust the accelerator farther to no avail. The boat swayed in the air from side to side, kicking up a tail of water behind. It was as if something had a maniacal grip on the second boat and refused to release it.
Surprised, Canstar dropped the engine speed back to idle. She adjusted the trim to compensate for the over-planing and again pressed the lever forward, calling for more power. Water shot up from behind and the engine whined, but the second boat refused to release from shore.
She was becoming frustrated. Canstar looked back at the front half of the white Sea Ray 20 feet behind. Her only alternative was to board the craft and see what was keeping the boat locked in place on shore. To do so, she would have to fight her way through the overhanging brush and foliage that concealed the back half of the boat. FWC officer Melanie Canstar was not squeamish, but she knew that plowing through the thick mass of swamp vegetation was simply not safe. It was a haven for water moccasins.
No, one more try, she thought.
Canstar turned back to the console and gunned the lever forward. Her boat began to plane wildly, dipping and rising, jumping left then right like a bronco trying to throw a stubborn cowboy. She was nearly flung into the water. By sheer luck, she caught the windshield and held on resolutely as the boat continued to buck. Suddenly, her boat shot forward, dipping hard and nearly burrowing into the water before leveling. She didn’t have to turn around to know that the second boat had been dislodged. Her boat was lethargic from the additional weight, but she was immensely relieved. She dropped the lever into neutral and turned.
The abandoned Sea Ray, now completely exposed, was a horrifying sight.
The back half of the vessel was destroyed; charred the deepest shade of black that Melanie Canstar had ever seen. The transom was in fractured pieces, sticking up in all directions. The gunwale on either side was slightly compressed inward. The top portion of the motor had been ripped away, leaving a gruesome section of mechanical parts jutting upward like some sort of metallic alien.
The shock of the damage caught Canstar off guard. She again wondered with growing concern about the occupants.
Sitting still, she grabbed the nylon rope and drew the damaged boat closer. She gripped the handle on its gunwale and maneuvered her boat alongside so that the vessels abutted bow to stern.
Only then did she notice something extraordinary; something impossible. Her stomach convulsed, and she began retching violently.
She did not hear the other boat approaching.
CHAPTER 10
Curt returned to the car where Scott sat waiting in the Green Cove Springs Police Station parking lot on Spring Street.
“Well, that got us nowhere. They know nothing of a Dr. Lila Falls, nor have they received any distress calls this morning. This is hopeless.” Curt pulled out his cellphone and tried Lila’s number yet again. It rang six times before rolling to her voicemail.
Curt started the engine.
“Where to now?” Scott asked.
“Honestly? I have no idea. In my mind, I keep hearing the pleading tone of Lila’s voice. She was in imminent danger,” Curt sighed and thought for a moment. “We both heard her say ‘south’ and ‘springs.’ Let’s go south of town along the river.”
Curt drove them south on State Road 17, then turned left on State Road 16 where an abandoned factory sat across the way, overgrown with weeds.
“Finding Lila is like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack,” Scott said as they passed the small military museum on the outskirts of town. The land on either side of the road was formerly a military base known as Lee Field where the U.S. Atlantic Fleet of 600 ships was mothballed at the end of World War II. In 1961, the reserve fleet was transferred to Texas, and the base was decommissioned. In 1984, Green Cove Springs annexed the former naval base into its corporate limits, tying its heritage to the city. Now, among other things, it was home to a golf course and an industrial park, including several boat repair shops and other small businesses scattered far from the road near the river.
The four-lane road narrowed to two lanes. Curt suddenly recalled something Lila had mentioned to him the last time they spoke months ago. He turned left onto a road that led to the Old Shands Bridge Boat Launch
. Ahead, at the river’s edge, a parking lot and cement pier came into view. The Shands Pier was all that remained of the original Shands Bridge—a flat, rickety wooden bridge constructed in 1929—which reached to the far bank at Orangedale. When the new Shands Bridge was built a short distance to the south and opened in 1963, the old span was removed. This abbreviated portion of the original bridge had been restored into a sturdy cement pier.
The parking lot was filled with vehicles and boat trailers of every ilk. Curt parked the Mustang as they watched the steady activity of boats coming and going at the launch. He climbed from the vehicle. Scott followed.
“Why are we here?” Scott asked.
“Something Lila said to me a while ago about some project that the Smithsonian had retained her for on the St. Johns River. When she told me about it, she had that gloating tone, so naturally I ignored what she was saying. I assumed she had completed it months ago. Now I’m wondering.”
Out on the water, a boat was slowly towing another boat toward the pier. Only the lead boat was manned, captained by a person in some sort of uniform. The second boat was empty. Even from a distance, Curt could see that the back quarter section of the boat in tow was severely damaged and the motor was disfigured and charred.
Curt got a sinking feeling as the two conjoined boats drew closer to the pier.
“That doesn’t look good,” Scott remarked.
Curt and Scott walked out onto the pier. The boats angled in toward the floating dock at the pier’s midpoint, which, at the moment, was unoccupied. By the time Curt and Scott reached the steps leading down to the floating dock, the two boats were drawing close.
“It’s a game warden,” Scott remarked.
Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2) Page 6
