Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

  “Oh my God,” Scott gasped.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” He could see Kay and Cody in the distance near the boat lift. They were leaning over the dock tossing in small pieces of bread, feeding whatever fish came to get it. They seemed fine.

  Scott looked down at the open page from Lawton Sawyer’s mother’s journal he had read aloud a few minutes before. “I think I know where the cave is that Ed referenced.” He stood and walked toward the bay window. Curt followed him.

  “Look,” Scott said.

  For a moment, Curt still thought Scott wanted him to see Kay and Cody standing at the far end of the dock.

  “To the right,” Scott guided Curt’s visage. “Remember what Ed said? ‘I made myself a camp outside the city in the swampy woods on a large raised mound very close to this river.’ ”

  Now Curt saw it. Three miles across the river on the swampy point, the dark green treeline ramped up from the left, flattened, and eventually sloped back down on the right: the rise on Bayard Point. It was just across the channel from Pacetti Point, where Lila’s boat was found by the Fish and Wildlife Officer.

  “As far as I know,” Scott finally spoke, “it’s the only raised portion of land along the river around here.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?” Curt asked.

  CHAPTER 17

  It was shortly after midnight. Lawton Sawyer had fallen asleep on the couch, draped in an afghan, watching TV. He dreamed he was following behind a man dressed in a flowing gown leading thousands of people across a barren desert. The man struggled with his leadership but kept pushing the group on, never slowing, relentless in his command. One by one, the followers fell dead. They were left behind like a trail of breadcrumbs for those who were chasing. As Sawyer walked, he saw the man in the flowing gown moving farther and farther away. Soon, the crowd had left Sawyer, who felt strong but for some reason became slower and slower until, against his will, he fell face down. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pleaded for the man, for the pack, to stop and help him. The leader never heard him, and the others refused to acknowledge his cries and kept moving until eventually they were out of sight.

  Sawyer lay on the sand and realized that the ground was trembling. The pursuers were approaching. He had to get up and hide, but his body would not respond. As the rumbling grew intense, he began to sob. Soon, a shadow appeared over him, and he felt the presence of a force he had not felt since his adolescence; where mind and soul separate and one negated the other, where detachment came naturally, and fear, anger, and jealousy are absorbed into a feeling of contentment. As Sawyer floated above the shadow, he saw it was dark, as dark as any night could ever be. Red beams shot upward and scorched the heavens, tearing the clouds apart and dumping rain on the landscape. The water was coming down so fast, it pooled instantly. The shadow was consumed by the torrential downpour until it was lost from sight, and even the red beam couldn’t find its way to the surface. As this maddening scene occurred below, Sawyer simply laughed. He knew it was coming. Ed never told him, but he knew, and no one had heeded his warning.

  Sawyer awakened to something tickling his big toe. Groggily, he reached down to scratch his foot when something grabbed his wrist. Before he could react, a hand was placed in his, locking into a handshake.

  “Mr. Sawyer, I’m glad to see you again.”

  Sawyer’s heart raced in his ears. There was a man leaning over his couch, firmly shaking his hand. It took him a moment to recognize Carr Nash.

  Sawyer sat up, pulling his hand away. “What are you doing in my house?” he barked. Nash’s monstrous sidekick, Jed Rassle, sat partially shadowed in his recliner across the living room.

  “Calm down, Mr. Sawyer,” Nash said as he sat on the end of the couch beside Sawyer. The only light was from the quiet TV screen. The contours of the man’s face were barely visible.

  Sawyer tried to catch his breath, still breathing harshly after his abrupt awakening.

  “Jed, get Mr. Sawyer some water,” Nash said motioning his hand toward the kitchen.

  The big man with the crewcut slowly rose from his chair and left the room. He returned moments later with a glass of water. He handed it to Nash, who, in turn, passed it to Sawyer. The old man eyed the two with extreme suspicion then drank several gulps. Rassle turned on a table lamp and retook his seat.

  “How did you get in here?” Sawyer asked with renewed anger.

  “Mr. Sawyer, there’s no need to yell,” Nash said calmly with a bedeviled smirk. He turned and wiped his hand over the coffee table and examined the layer of dirt now on his fingers. “I’m not looking to pilfer your worldly goods.”

  “Why have you come back? I gave you the information you asked for.”

  “True,” Nash said with an insincere grin.

  Sawyer detected the repressed anger in his voice, and he shivered inside.

  “But you failed to tell us everything, didn’t you? Rumor in town has it that you were at the church yesterday when that couple was swallowed up by the earth.”

  Sawyer hesitated in his response. His gut told him to admit nothing, yet the stare from Carr Nash’s shadowed eyes scared him to the core. He nodded his head weakly as he placed the glass of water on an end table.

  “My friend here, Mr. Rassle, noticed another set of tire tracks coming down the road to your house, and they’re very recent, within the last day. As I believe I said before, Jed is a seasoned tracker and hunter. Not much gets past him.” Nash slapped his knees and stood. “So let’s get to the point, shall we?” Nash began to pace back and forth before the couch, the wood floor creaking beneath his feet.

  Sawyer drew the afghan up to his chest and felt his mouth go dry. He sorely regretted ever dealing with these men.

  “Mr. Sawyer…Lawton. You haven’t been sharing information with anyone else now, have you?”

  “No,” he said meekly. He knew his response was unconvincing.

  Nash stopped pacing, and stared at Sawyer. “Since we paid you for your knowledge, I believe we made it perfectly clear that you were not to impart it to anyone else.” His tone had turned acidic. “As I told you before, we’re collectors of sorts. It does us no good if someone gets to the objects first.”

  Out of fear, Sawyer tried to go on the offensive. “So why are you in my house?” he gruffed, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t collect anything.”

  Sawyer thought he saw a faint smile on Nash’s lips.

  “Other than dust, I’d tend to agree with that statement, although I now think otherwise. Sometimes treasures are only seen by the true collectors, just like the statement, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’ In this case, I couldn’t care less about aesthetics. This time, the real beauty is in the power.” He resumed his pacing.

  Sawyer summoned his anger once again. “Mr. Nash, or whatever the hell your name really is, I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about. What is it that you want with me that you’re so inclined to break into an old man’s house and wake me from a sound sleep in the early hours of the morning? I told you everything that happened last summer in St. Augustine.”

  Nash turned abruptly at one end of the couch and slammed his hand on the end table, knocking the glass of water to the floor, where it shattered. “Enough,” he said with a deep, animalistic growl. “I want to know about the other one, and I want to know who else you talked to and what happened in that church yesterday.”

  Sawyer was speechless, his lips trembling. Consumed with fear, he blurted, “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So we’re going this direction. I had so hoped to avoid any undue irrational behavior. You’re too old for games, Mr. Sawyer.”

  “I’m—”

  “Cease,” Carr Nash screamed. He retreated to a cloth chair next to the couch and took a seat. Then he motioned for Jed Rassle.

  The large man stood and pulled some
thing which made a metallic scrape from the side of his trousers. The empty sheath dangled at his side as Rassle held up the long object. As he moved toward Sawyer, the light from the television glinted off the long, upswept hunting knife.

  Lawton Sawyer felt his blood go cold.

  Rassle stopped before Lawton Sawyer, turning the blade, which caused it to reflect the light from the television this way and that.

  “Sawyer, if I were you, now is about the time I’d start talking. I’ve seen Jed carve a whole pig in 30 minutes. Imagine what he can do to you. And consider that you’ll be alive during most of it.”

  Sawyer stared at Rassle, petrified. His lips moved, but nothing would come out. Dread filled him.

  “I see that you’re finally taking me seriously,” Nash said, gazing at Sawyer’s wide eyes.

  “My…mother…kept…some…journals,” Sawyer’s voice quivered out each word.

  Nash rose and stood beside Rassle, his silhouette in sharp contrast to Rassle’s massive, taller frame.

  “And there’s more…” Sawyer continued.

  “Sawyer,” Nash plopped on the couch beside him, slapping the old man’s knee firmly, “you have the floor. We’re all ears.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Joe Redman woke at 1:36 a.m. and stared into the darkness. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim moonlight seeping through the slanted blinds of the bedroom window. Sharon was lying at an angle, her head on the pillow near the edge of the bed, and her feet crowded against him. As usual, she was in deep-snore mode. He tried the usual tactic of nudging her, hopeful she would reposition and stop snoring long enough for him to get back to sleep, but it was no use. He could have set off a nuclear warhead, and Sharon would have slept through it. Twenty minutes and hundreds of snores later, Joe clambered out of bed in frustration.

  Four months and three days into retirement, the 66-year-old man was a wreck. Free time, something for which he had yearned for nearly 44 years, had turned him into a man without purpose, and hanging around the house during the day was driving Sharon nuts. While the first month was filled with “honey dos” such as reorganizing the garage, detailing the cars, and cleaning out his closet, all of which were sanctioned by Sharon, Joe had run out of productive endeavors and had slowly drifted into a couch–potato state. No matter how hard he sought to suppress his comments on topics such as what Sharon should make for dinner or how she should fold the clothes, he felt compelled constantly to voice his opinions. He knew he was driving Sharon crazy, yet he couldn’t stop himself. He began to wonder if the marriage had only worked because he wasn’t around the house much before he retired.

  Joe made his way down the hallway and into the kitchen. Swinging the refrigerator door wide open, he searched the contents. When nothing appealed to him except a can of cola, he scooped it up and sat down at the kitchen table. Three sips later, Joe rose and walked back into the bedroom. He found his slippers and robe and returned to the kitchen. Grabbing his cola, he flipped on the dual set of light switches beside the back door and made his way onto his lighted wooden deck.

  It was a clear night. The pungent smell of stranded eel grass told Joe it was low tide. Above, the stars twinkled against the dark canopy of sky as the moon shone brilliantly over the river.

  Joe proceeded out onto the freshly cut back lawn, carefully watching his step. Ahead, the end of his dock was visible as the halogen light mounted high on a pile bathed the structure in a silky glow. Joe ambled out to the foot of the dock, looking down at the shore then beyond as moonlight danced off the watery surface. His lungs filled with the smell of exposed waterweeds and decaying dock planks. The air was still. It was the kind of peaceful night that Joe would have normally embraced, but he was struggling with his thoughts and paid little attention to the tranquil setting.

  He continued outward. When he reached the end of the dock, he raised the folding metal chair he kept tied to a plank and took a seat.

  Retirement. Forty-plus years with CSX in Orlando had passed by in a moment. During the long days at work, it had seemed like an eternity. Now, most days he longed to be back in the office, teasing the geeky accountant, busting his ass to complete a financial report at the last minute, or conducting water-cooler inspections of the new secretary. These were the things that made his days go by. Things he could depend on to occupy his time, daily accomplishments that gave him purpose, allowed him to sleep at night, not waking at midnight and sitting alone on a dock looking through the dark at a vast, barren river.

  The irony of retirement hit him like a bolt of lightning:

  You work nearly all your life to retire, yet, when you finally do, you’re so conditioned to work that you suffer from a lack of meaningful deeds to be accomplished.

  Joe silently shook his head and laid the cola on the deck to his left. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There had to be a solution. He knew others had retired and carried on productive existences. He would just have to find a way to do the same, but damn-it-all, he didn’t know where to start.

  Joe and Sharon Redman’s house sat on Pacetti Point, to the west across the river from Bayard Point. It was from the direction of Bayard Point that Joe’s attention was suddenly drawn by the churning sound of a wave rolling in the distance. At least it sounded like a wave. He cocked his head and stared across the channel into the darkness. The air remained still. It must be the wake from a passing boat, he thought, yet he had not heard a boat nor seen any running lights.

  The rustling of water in the distance was constant, but still no sign of a passing boat. Poachers concealing themselves in the darkness, maybe?

  Joe held his gaze in the direction of the sound and the noise grew louder, transforming into a low, clicking gurgle. The bizarre sound came in rapid bursts, rolling off the water, and then paused before starting up again. It was like a loud cat purring; comforting and unsettling at the same time.

  This was no wave.

  Suddenly spooked, Joe stood and wheeled around. The light on the back deck of his house glowed much dimmer than he would have preferred at that moment. An instant later, the halogen light overhead crackled and then popped, sending fragments of the bulb and filament raining down on the dock.

  Clouds blocked the moon, and he was enveloped in darkness.

  A chill ran up his back. Joe stood frozen in place, breathing excitedly. In the distance, the light from the deck at the back of his house flickered once then went black, causing the backyard to turn inky black.

  The erratic sound continued to grow. A slight breeze blew from the west, and the guttural purring now seemed to come from every direction. He spun to the left, then right, watching the dark water for any sign of movement, any ripples. As if experiencing a masterfully orchestrated evil concerto, all the elements had turned against Joe Redman at once as the clicking sound grew ever louder.

  He felt his body tense and could hear his heartbeat swelling in his ears.

  Then the low, clicking noise stopped.

  A shudder ran across Joe’s chest and his breathing strained. He turned and took one step in the direction of land.

  Joe Redman gasped.

  A small red circular light, framed by the blackness of night, hovered near the foot of the dock. It floated in place, nearly eight feet in the air. Joe’s mind spun, trying to identify the source of the red glow, but a grip of panic consumed him.

  The red light remained stationary. Joe swallowed hard, suddenly sensing how dry his mouth had become, and he unconsciously stepped backward. He stumbled into the folding chair, fell over, and knocked the can of cola on its side. With a slow, metallic roll, the can fell off the side of the dock and splashed into the water. Joe grabbed his chest, feeling like his heart was going to burst through his rib cage. He scampered to his feet, and turned back to relocate the red light.

  The glowing red circle was gone.

  He panned the dark landscape from his
backyard, west to the Dudley and Singer properties, then east to the Chaney’s uncleared lot and the woods beyond—nothing except utter darkness. In that moment, the moonlight filtered through the clouds and cast its full glow on the area. Joe Redman breathed a sigh of relief. Visibility increased dramatically.

  It must have been a mirage. A trick of dim night on tired eyes, he summarized. Yet, there had been the odd sounds beforehand.

  “Never mind, Joe Redman, you’re being foolish. You don’t believe in the Boogey Man,” he said to himself.

  Joe turned, refolded the chair, and put it on the dock. A bubbling noise drew his attention, and he glanced over the end of the dock. A single groundswell of water slammed the front piles with enough force that it rocked the deck. Terrified, Joe fought to maintain his balance as the wooden planks groaned. Acting on shear impulse, he turned to run.

  He stopped dead in his tracks. A blazing red light was inches away from his left eye.

  Joe Redman’s world turned agonizingly orange.

  CHAPTER 19

  Samuel Tolen was on the road before daylight Sunday morning at 5:05 a.m. There had been no word on Dr. Lila Falls. He had tried to follow up with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, but they were having difficulty reaching Officer Melanie Canstar. They promised to have her call Tolen when they did.

  Driving north on Interstate 95, his phone rang. He checked the display and answered, “Good morning, Tiffany.”

  “I’m not sure if being up this early on Sunday qualifies as good, but I’ll take your word for it,” Tiffany Bar responded. “I was scanning the Internet this morning and saw the story there about the church floor opening up and that couple falling through. Are you sure you haven’t entered the Twilight Zone?”

  “It’s been deemed a sink hole; a rational explanation.”

  “Still, weird stuff happens wherever you go, Tolen,” Bar mused. “Anyway, I got the autopsy results from the body, or should I say pieces of body, that you netted coming out of the Green Cove Springs spring on Friday. The remains are from a Caucasian man named Clarence Little from Valdosta, Georgia. He’s a known drug trafficking pilot. It was reported that he took off from an airfield south of you at Miami Beach late Thursday afternoon. A witness said he was traveling north, but there’s no record of the Cessna ever landing, and authorities have been unable to locate the plane. The beacon from the transponder in the tail is not giving off a signal.”