Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

She looked at the cellphone in her hand, and tossed it on the bed. She dipped her head into her hands. Despite her sincere reason for following up on the events at the spring yesterday, she felt miserable.

  How did it ever get like this between the two of them?

  CHAPTER 12

  FWC Officer Melanie Canstar vowed to report Dr. Lila Falls as missing to the police. She also informed Curt and Scott that the boat would be towed by the rental company to the Green Cove Springs Police Station for examination.

  Scott and Curt spent the next four and a half hours on the water searching for any trace of Lila. The day had turned into a scorcher. The wind, which had kicked up earlier, settled as the afternoon progressed, cloaking the watery landscape in oppressive humidity. Twice, they had to stop by Pacetti’s Fishcamp on Trout Creek to refuel and pick up sunblock.

  After one more pass near Pacetti Point, Scott and Curt returned to Taylor Barton’s dock and secured the boat. They were carrying the seat cushions and other gear back to the house when Scott’s phone rang. He awkwardly lowered the gear he was carrying and answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Scott Marks?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Lawton Sawyer in Green Cove Springs.”

  Scott vaguely recognized the name but hesitated with his response.

  Curt continued toward the house.

  Sawyer continued, “Mr. Marks, I’m not sure if you remember me, but your grandfather, Tyler Marks, was once a business partner of mine. I don’t believe we ever met in person.”

  Now Scott recalled the man.

  In the ‘50s, Lawton Sawyer and Tyler Marks once owned a large chicken processing plant in Middleburg, Florida, but severed ties when their business philosophies diverged. Sawyer was about quantity; cutting corners wherever he could, even at the expense of health and safety, while Tyler Marks was an ethical man who sought quality. When the business folded in the mid-1960s, Sawyer blamed Marks for its downfall. The last time Scott had heard Lawton Sawyer’s name was at his grandfather’s funeral when he was 12. Sawyer had failed to show for the service, and Scott’s father had stewed in contempt at the man’s lack of respect.

  “What can I help you with, Mr. Sawyer?”

  “I need to speak with you in person. It’s a rather urgent matter. Can you come to my home?”

  The request caught Scott by surprise. “Mr. Sawyer, I’m busy at the moment. Can you tell me what this is in regards to?”

  “I’d prefer to discuss matters face-to-face.”

  “Anything you’d like to discuss we can do over—”

  “You were there yesterday at the Green Cove Springs City Park when it happened.”

  Again, Scott was caught off guard. How did he know that? He hesitated and collected his thoughts. “That’s what you want to talk to me about?”

  “Yes, as soon as you can get here.”

  Scott took an audible deep breath and slowly exhaled. He rubbed his forehead. There was something in the tone of the old man’s voice that had Scott’s attention. The urge to hang up was outweighed by his curiosity. “Give me your address.”

  ****

  Scott explained the call to Curt and vowed to catch up with him after meeting with Lawton Sawyer. In the meantime, Curt would follow up with Lila’s associates and see if he could get any insight into what she might have been doing in the Green Cove Springs area. As one-time husband-and-wife archaeologists, their friends ran in the same circle. Surely someone would know something about Lila’s motivation for why she was so far upriver from the target area.

  At the house, Kay and Cody were watching a movie. Scott briefly checked in and then was on the road. He took the Shands Bridge south, and ten minutes later, in the heart of Green Cove Springs, he turned west on State Road 16. He drove several miles into the country until he found the address he was searching for on a shoddy mailbox that leaned severely to one side. He turned down an obscure, unnamed, dirt road wedged within thick woods. The single lane went on, twisting and turning, sending his SUV jostling over the washboard surface. The dirt road seemed to be leading him nowhere, and Scott began to wonder if he had heard the address correctly. In the back of his mind, he heard a banjo and guitar dueling.

  The road eventually opened to Lawton Sawyer’s place: a large, worn, two-story wooden house set within an unkempt meadow. A blue AMC vehicle, a Javelin perhaps, badly in need of a paint job was parked on the side of the house. Tall grass abutted the structure on all sides. A large wraparound porch with decorative lattice work was slowly succumbing to age and the elements. Every window had drapes that were drawn closed, shutting out the world. A hulking oak tree with sprawling limbs stretched toward the left side of the house as if bracing the fragile structure from tipping over. There was an eerie presence about the house, as if it craved to return to yesteryear when it was a thriving abode, yet was being vanquished by time for all its secrets.

  If Scott didn’t know any better, he would have thought Lawton Sawyer lived in a haunted house.

  Scott parked next to the AMC and climbed the creaking steps to the porch. He was struck by the absolute quiet of the surrounding woods. No birds sang, and no limbs rustled with the activities of squirrels or wind. The smell of pine and ragweed floated on the warm air.

  He approached the screen door, anxious to know what was on Lawton Sawyer’s mind, but feeling a sense of trepidation. The sudden request to meet was intriguing but bewildering. That Sawyer wanted to discuss the anomaly at the Green Cove Springs Park yesterday only added to the mystery. Scott had a weird feeling that he couldn’t identify. Hearing from his grandfather’s business partner out of the blue suggested he take caution.

  The screen door was closed, but the front door behind it was open. Through the fine mesh, he could see a narrow foyer with hardwood floors. A small, antique curio cabinet with glass windows was perched at eye level on the adjacent wall. Of the dozen or so compartments in the cabinet, only a few were filled. Scott gently tapped on the decaying wood of the screen door. He was surprised when an elderly man seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  “Mr. Marks, I’m Lawton Sawyer, but you probably already figured that out.” Sawyer gently pushed the screen door open, and Scott stepped inside, shaking the man’s proffered hand. A part of Scott wanted to show hostility toward the man, simply out of respect for his own father and grandfather, yet it felt disrespectful and wrong. While Scott’s father had detested Sawyer for not appearing at his grandfather’s funeral, Scott had only been 12 and was mostly ambivalent to the situation. He had never been privy to any inside dealings between his grandfather and Lawton Sawyer, thus he had only heard of his unscrupulous business ethics secondhand when he was much older. By then, it had always seemed like water under the bridge. It wasn’t like Sawyer killed Scott’s grandfather, who died from a massive coronary.

  Sawyer motioned Scott to follow him. Although wiry thin, the man’s motions were relatively effortless as he led Scott to a two-seater, wooden kitchen table.

  “Coffee?” Sawyer asked.

  “Thanks,” Scott responded, taking one of the seats and noticing the scent of cedar.

  Sawyer walked over to the coffee pot at the counter and poured a cup. He turned and asked, “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black is fine.”

  Sawyer laid the cup before Scott, slid out a chair, and settled in across the table.

  “Mr. Sawyer, you live in quite a secluded place.”

  Sawyer nodded.

  For the first time, Scott studied the man. Lawton Sawyer was 15 years older than his grandfather had been, and Scott had determined his age now to be mid-nineties. He looked every bit of it. Endless creases crisscrossed his face. The scant white hair on his head was as fine as the strands of a spider’s web. His eyes were round and wide, and the tip of his nose bowed upward. His ears stuck out like beacons. Scott recalled an old picture of his gra
ndfather and Sawyer standing in front of the chicken processing plant. The middle-aged man in the photo contrasted starkly to the man before him today. The dark hair had gone completely gray, yet the features were the same, although more pronounced with age, as if he’d become a caricature of himself.

  “Mr. Marks, I know that our familiarity is only a benefit of my business relationship with your grandfather, God rest his soul. Beyond that, we’ve never conversed. In the past, I’ve been a…well…challenging individual to relate to, as I’ve preferred to posture myself inward. As the last years, maybe even days, of my life draw to a close, I’m attempting to adjust my life with the Lord and, frankly, solidify my salvation in eternity.”

  I don’t believe this. He tricked me here. He wants me to forgive him for any wrongdoings against my family. He’s going to ask me to clear up any blemishes on his permanent record. I should be with Curt helping him look for Lila, not wasting time here. A huge internal sigh of disgust withered through Scott’s body, which must have evidenced itself through his facial expression.

  “Mr. Marks, I didn’t ask you here for your vote of confidence for my redemption with the Lord. I can tell that’s what you’re thinking. Your grandfather and I didn’t see eye to eye on things, and it soured our partnership. I admit I held it against the man even into death. For that, I am truly sorry.”

  Scott set his cup on the table and stood up. He was frustrated at himself for not clarifying the intent of the meeting when Sawyer called. The way that the old man had talked, the tone in Sawyer’s voice, had misled him into assuming this was, in some way, important. Scott took a deep breath. “Mr. Sawyer, by the power invested in me, you’re forgiven. And now I’ve got to be on my way.”

  There was a far-off look in Lawton Sawyer’s eyes that caused Scott to pause long enough for Sawyer to speak. “Mr. Marks, my family has lived in the Green Cove Springs vicinity since the 1840s when it was known as Pirate’s Cove and later as White Sulfur Springs for obvious reasons. My grandfather raised his family here when the town consisted of a tiny store, a wharf, and a few houses bordering a public square. During the Civil War, Union troops frequently skirmished with Confederate forces in this vicinity and occupied the town in 1864. The town grew slowly and was renamed Green Cove Springs in 1866. River steamers used to bring visitors to the Saratoga of the South, as it was known. The healthful qualities of the spring, along with the hotels and boarding houses that dotted the town, were said to rival the finest northern resorts of the time.

  “Yet, I’ve feared the spring ever since my seventh birthday in 1925, when Mother and I celebrated with a picnic at what is now known as Spring Park. That was long before the cement collar surrounded the boil and long before the water was channeled through a pool. Back then, it was a simple spring, bubbling out of the ground and making its way to the river as nature intended, not by some path constructed by man.”

  “Mr. Sawyer, I—” Scott started, still standing and intent on leaving.

  Sawyer cut him off, immersed in his own past, as if he never heard Scott. “That day, Mother had prepared quite the spread: sandwiches, fruits, desserts, and iced tea. Father had passed away from disease when I was four, and Mother was the only family I had, so on a beautiful spring day, this picnic was the highlight of my birthday.” Sawyer paused. His eyes narrowed. His expression grew suddenly morose. “Mr. Marks, do you recognize the color of blood?”

  Scott hesitated. “What?”

  “Do you recognize the color of blood? Would you know it if it was partially diluted in another liquid?”

  “Yes,” Scott thought back to yesterday when the crimson liquid and tattered flesh had risen from the spring and floated past him.

  “Well, let me tell you, at seven years old, I didn’t know how rich, how dark, blood would look, even in water.” Sawyer averted his eyes from Scott, looking past him at nothing, as if he were searching the corners of his mind.

  Scott slowly sat back down in silence, looking at Sawyer. He had a gut feeling that whatever Sawyer was going to tell him was not pleasant, yet even with this instinctive warning, he felt compelled to hear the man out. “Go on,” Scott said.

  “Mother and I laid out our blanket near the bank of the spring run, not far from its surfacing point. As she removed the food from the wicker basket, I stood and walked over to the edge of the stream.” He paused, a foggy expression washing over his face. “What I saw in the water has stayed with me all these years.” Sawyer lowered his voice and spoke solemnly, “The water turned dark.”

  He continued, “At first I thought the sky had clouded and the surface was reflecting the overcast, but it was a bright day and, looking up, the sun was blazing. I looked back at the stream and traced it to the origin, where the water surfaced from the ground. It was bubbling up this same, strange, dark color, spilling out into the stream and running to the river. It was so thick, it made the spring completely opaque. I called my mother to come over and look. I’ll never forget the expression on her face when she saw it.”

  Sawyer paused, deep in remembrance. “Her look turned from confusion to terror in a split second. Mother grabbed my hand. She only stopped long enough to quickly throw the things back in the basket before we scurried off. I remember crying the whole walk home; not because my birthday had been spoiled as much from the visceral fear deep in her eyes.”

  Scott spoke, “There were human remains in the water yesterday. Is that what you saw in 1925?”

  “No, just the discolored water. Nevertheless, it took hours for my mother to calm, and she forbade me from telling anyone what we’d witnessed. ‘Townspeople might think we’re crazy in the head,’ she had told me. She had me so afraid of going to jail or being locked up as a loon that I kept quiet about it, to all but one person. As time went by, whenever I mentioned it to her, Mother began denying it ever happened. She soon had me convinced it had all been some sort of daydream. The power of persuasion on a child can be very strong, Mr. Marks, and my mother knew how to spin her will on me.

  “Several days after the event, Mother took on a boarder. We had two additional bedrooms, and Lord knows we needed the money. Her job as a seamstress barely kept us clothed and fed, so when a stranger appeared in town looking for a place to stay, Mother was quick to strike a deal.”

  Scott was intrigued but was trying to understand Sawyer’s angle for sharing the information with him now. “Mr. Sawyer, just because the spring darkened 89 years ago like it did yesterday, I’m not sure I understand why you asked to speak with me?”

  Sawyer inclined his head and his gaze hardened. “You should develop a little tolerance when dealing with the elderly. We’ve seen a lot of history.” Sawyer’s words were spoken diplomatically, with determination.

  Scott leaned back in his chair taking a deep breath. He nodded for Sawyer to continue.

  “Our new boarder was heading south but had temporarily taken a job at the saw mill in town. He lived in the woods on the outskirts of town prior to renting a room with us. Over the weeks, he and I became buddies. He was a small man who spoke funny, and he seemed to enjoy having me around. He shared his travel stories, and I showed him around town and introduced him to the locals. He was a shy man, although he was friendly with me when we talked in private. My mother referred to him as the ‘perfect foreigner’ because of his accent. He was always on time with his rent money, well-mannered, and never spoke foul language in our presence. In retrospect, I believe mother was sweet on him, for when he finally left nearly four months later, she cried the entire night.

  “I only knew the man as Ed, and I don’t believe he ever told Mother his full name. I vividly remember that when he left, he gave me a warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “Yes,” Sawyer rose and went to the kitchen sink, retrieved a glass of water, and returned to his seat.

  Scott, who five minutes before was ready to walk out the door, was listening attentively. He sti
ll didn’t know where Mr. Sawyer was going with the story, but he sensed the man was finally on the precipice of getting to the point.

  Sawyer stared at Scott and placed the glass on the table. “About a month after Ed moved in with Mother and me, against my mother’s wishes, I secretly told him about the incident at the spring on my seventh birthday. He acted surprised but also accepted my account of the water changing color without question. Even as a child, this struck me as odd. Why would an adult believe such a fantastic story from a kid?”

  Scott faintly shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Sawyer continued, “because somehow he knew what had caused it to happen. The day after I told him the story, he took me for a walk. He warned me that if the spring ever turned dark red again, to take caution. ‘The water should always be clear,’ he said. ‘If it isn’t, get away from this town.’ For years afterward, I had nightmares of being at the spring and watching the water change to dark crimson. Creatures would slither out from the depths and scour the town in search of human flesh to eat. As I grew older, Ed’s warning faded, and the dreams ceased. Although I never forgot them, over time his words seemed more like something I’d imagined. As the years passed, the warning faded in my memory like so many childhood recollections that are chiseled away by time.”

  “Did he tell you why you should fear the spring turning colors?”

  “No, he never did.”

  Scott looked down at his hands folded on the table. The warning regarding the spring, as vague as it was, had his mind reeling.

  “Yep, that warning is all Ed left me. He also gave Mother the same warning in private one afternoon when I wasn’t around.”

  Scott’s eyes shot up from the table and focused on the man seated across from him. “How do you know he told her in private?”

  “Because she wrote about Ed in her journal. Mother passed away when I was 30 in 1948. I was so devastated by her death that I boxed up many of her personal effects and placed them away in the attic. It wasn’t until last weekend that I removed a box from the attic and found her journals. She appears to have started writing around the time of my birth and continued until her death. The notebooks numbered about 65 or 70. It took me awhile, but I found one describing the time when Ed lived with us. Now I know why Ed warned Mother and me about the spring turning red.”