Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

  “Curt, you start over there,” Scott said pointing slightly back over his shoulder, “and I’ll start over there.” He aimed straight ahead. “This is going to be tough, but let’s sweep up and down the sides, slowly moving in a clockwise motion around the plateau. Watch your step.”

  “I suggest we leave the supplies here,” Curt said. They laid down the gear. Curt paused. “Scott, Ed’s story seems so improbable: A cave…a stream inside…a face…a skull…a stick with glowing red and green rocks. Any chance Lawton Sawyer is just pulling your chain?”

  “The man’s over ninety, but he sure appeared lucid.”

  Curt sighed. Any glimmer of a possibility that the tale might lead to Lila was worth the effort, but he had to temper his expectations. At best, this was a longshot effort.

  The two men parted, heading in opposite directions. Curt reached the backside of the plateau and slowly descended, being careful with his footing. It was a rigorous undertaking. Every downward traverse of the lofty hill had its inevitable upward climb. That they were each working alone on opposite sides of the hill made the task that much more laborious. Thirty minutes later, they had covered only half the area. Curt yelled out for Scott to mark his progress, and they met back on the plateau to rest. The sun was climbing upward in the sky, and the humidity was being fueled by the new light of day. Curt was sweating profusely, as was Scott.

  After a brief break, downing a bottle of water, they recommenced their search. Although committed to the effort, Curt knew any hope of finding Ed’s cave and Lila was dwindling.

  Curt found the stick-marker that he had placed in the ground and proceeded down the slope cautiously. Even at a snail’s pace, his feet tangled in a briar bush vine, and he lost his footing, landing on his hands and stomach and sliding down the embankment headfirst a great distance before he came to a stop, but well short of where the slope met the swamp. Shaken but unhurt save for a few scratches on his hands, he wobbled to his feet and brushed himself off.

  “Nice going, Lohan,” he said, disgusted with his clumsiness, spitting out debris that had landed in his mouth.

  Curt noticed a bush below, lying low on the sloped ground. Something about it looked irregular, and he took several steps down until he stood beside it. There, beneath the bush, was an opening in the earth. They had not spotted it earlier from the plateau because it had been shielded by the foliage. The shaft seemed to be a perfect circle, about four feet in diameter, bored into the earth at a slight angle. He stooped down and peered inside, but all he could see was darkness. Quickly looking around, he found a lengthy branch and, holding the end, pushed it into the opening. It went down, never touching the bottom.

  “Lila,” Curt yelled. “Are you down there?”

  No response.

  “Lila?”

  Still nothing.

  Curt lumbered back up the hill and onto the plateau. “Scott,” he yelled. “I think I’ve found it. Let’s grab the gear.”

  They met on the plateau.

  “You found the tunnel?” Scott asked, meeting up with his friend.

  “I think so. I called down into it but got no response. I’m going in. Lila and her assistant could be lying injured at the bottom. This way,” Curt said, grabbing the flashlights, handing one to Scott, then lifting the rope and traipsing off. They quickly descended the side. Moments later, they were staring with fascination at the angled opening reaching into the earth.

  Both men turned their flashlights on and shined them into the opening. What Curt saw was unexpected. Smooth dirt walls reached down beyond the range of their lights into a bed of darkness. The tunnel was much deeper than he had expected.

  “Notice the walls,” Curt commented.

  “They appear perfectly round.”

  “Yeah, that, but also notice the dirt is light-colored. It’s fresh, as if this tunnel was recently bored out.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Lila, you down there?”

  He waited but there was no response. A second call also went unanswered.

  Scott turned away from the opening, looking down the slope, and pointed. “Look.”

  Curt saw a rotting stump of a tree farther down the embankment. A rope was tied around it at the base. The rest of the long rope was strewn behind haphazardly around it, partially concealed in the underbrush.

  Curt carefully moved down to it. Scott followed.

  “Do you think it was used to get down the shaft?” Scott asked.

  Curt picked up a section and examined it. It appeared relatively new. “I think it’s a possibility. This is good, strong rope.” Curt looked just beyond and saw an enormous amount of rock fragments scattered about, spread out in a large radius. The pieces were no more than the size of marbles. Then he bent down and found the end of the rope. “It didn’t break. The end is sealed.” He began to wind it from hand to elbow, tugging it from the snags in the brush, until he coiled all but a short section attached to the stump. Curt moved slowly back up the slope, unfurling it as needed as he went. When he reached the opening, he tossed the balance of the coiled rope into it. He gave it a hearty tug to ensure the tree stump would hold. Satisfied, he looked at Scott.

  “I’m going in.” He placed the flashlight in his pocket.

  “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Scott, I’d feel safer if you remain topside until I find out where this shaft goes. I might need your help getting out.” Curt felt a twinge of nervousness, recalling the couple who was lost in the opening of the floor of the church. He had tried to shake the incident away as some freak occurrence of nature, but after what he’d experienced with the Fish in St. Augustine last fall, the boundary between rational and irrational had become severely blurred.

  Scott nodded.

  Curt sat so that his legs were in the shaft. He made sure he had a secure grip on the rope and slowly backed down into the tunnel. The angle was obtuse enough that the rope was needed to prevent him from sliding down the smooth, earthen walls.

  “Hold the light on me. It might help,” Curt said.

  Scott turned on a flashlight and trained it down on Curt.

  Curt took one last deep breath, exhaled, and began descending the tunnel feet first. Instantly, he felt as if the walls were shrinking in on him with each downward slide, nevertheless, he fought off the sensation and descended the rope, hand under hand. If Lila was at the bottom, time was of the essence. Twenty-four hours had passed already. The odds were ever-decreasing of finding her alive.

  “You okay?” Scott called down.

  “Yes,” Curt responded as he continued. The walls had a grainy, thick texture. Amazingly, the dirt was so tightly packed, it held in place even as he slid down the shaft. Curt paused momentarily to look up. He was blinded by the flashlight shining down on him. He took the opportunity to reposition the flashlight that was digging into his leg.

  Farther and farther downward he went. He estimated he was now 20 feet from the surface. Each breath left a lingering taste of dirt in his mouth. Thankfully, the angle of the shaft remained constant. It was comforting to look up and always see the flashlight beam glaring down on him.

  Another thirty seconds passed. Above, in a faraway voice he heard Scott. “Curt, I can barely see you now. You doin’ okay?”

  “Yes. Down about 35 feet or so,” Curt shouted. He paused to give his hands a rest from the constant gripping and regripping of the rope as he lowered. “I’m worried I’m going to run out of rope,” he shouted up. I’m also worried that I can’t see what’s below me.

  On and on he descended: 40 feet…50 feet.

  At what he estimated as 60 feet down, his feet lost contact with the shaft. He half turned his body, holding the rope with one hand, awkwardly removing the flashlight from his pocket with the other. He clicked it on. The light pierced ahead where the tunnel emptied into a chamber. He rolled completely onto his back and scooted down until his feet
touched the floor. Using the light as a guide, he wormed the rest of his body out.

  Shining the light around, Curt found himself in a room with stone walls. “I’m at the base,” Curt turned and shouted up the shaft.

  “What’s there? What do you see?” Scott asked.

  “It’s a cave,” Curt said. “No sign of Lila, yet. C’mon on down.”

  Several minutes later, Curt helped Scott right himself onto the cave floor. The air was stale but not repulsive.

  They began to survey the interior with their flashlights.

  CHAPTER 21

  Clad in the FWC uniform, 34-year-old Josette Laval headed toward Johnson’s Cove, a mile west of the Shands Bridge on the St. Johns River.

  It had been an odd stroke of luck that she had come across Melanie Canstar yesterday morning after the FWC officer had discovered the archaeologist’s rented boat on Bayard Point. Laval had approached slowly in her own vessel, hailing Officer Canstar and asking if she needed any assistance with the damaged craft. Laval had not been armed, yet she had made the decision to get close enough to the officer to eliminate her. Against Canstar’s objections, Laval had quickly tied off to the FWC officer’s boat and climbed aboard.

  Laval knew Tolen was looking for the missing Dr. Lila Falls. An opportunity to pose as a Florida Fish and Wildlife officer would give her the perfect cover and allow her to get close to him.

  As a former counter terrorist with the Premier Regiment Parachutiste d’Infanterie de Marine of the French Army, Josette Laval was deadly in hand-to-hand combat. After Canstar had drawn her service pistol and ordered Laval out of her boat, Laval had deftly knocked the weapon from Canstar’s hand onto shore, and an extended struggle had ensued. Yet she had underestimated her opponent. Canstar, an obvious beneficiary of extensive martial arts training, had even landed a stunning kick to Laval’s ribs that had her momentarily staggered. Laval had gained the upper edge, improvising by using the boat paddle to fend off the officer until she was able to get behind the woman and apply a stranglehold that left Melanie Canstar gasping for air. Laval used her forearm to constrict the officer’s neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until there was one final spasm before Canstar’s flailing arms went limp.

  A formidable opponent, but in the end, just another body left in her wake.

  It had been three years since Josette Laval had left the military; three years since she had killed another human…far too long. A surge of adrenaline coursed through her body, making her tingle.

  It would not be three years before her next kill. That much she knew.

  Fortunately, the fight had not damaged Canstar’s FWC uniform. Laval had laid Canstar’s corpse on the floorboard and slowly disrobed the officer. The two women were roughly the same size. The uniform would complete the disguise. Stripping Canstar down to her bra and panties, Laval couldn’t help but admire the dead officer’s shapely figure. It was a pity, really, that she had to kill the woman. She would have probably made one helluva lay.

  Before slipping into Canstar’s uniform, she pulled on the rope attached to the bow of the damaged vessel. A putrid smell arose as the floating boat neared. Laval recognized it, the smell of flesh simmering in the brutal sunlight. She drew the damaged vessel against Canstar’s boat. Even with everything she had seen and done in her life, the sight before her was a morbid surprise. In the back floorboard, there was a clump of remains, organs mostly. Laval knew right away they were human.

  What in the hell happened? Could this be Dr. Falls?

  Laval took the corpse of Melanie Canstar and dug a shallow grave a dozen feet into the marsh. She then used a bail bucket and scooped up the organs pooled on the floorboard of the rental boat. Laval had long ago learned to block out the smell of rotting flesh. Even so, it had been a struggle not to vomit. The stench was overpowering, and mixed within the remains were other body parts: a finger, some toes, half an ear, both lips, even part of a breast with the nipple intact.

  More evidence that this might, indeed, be the remains of Dr. Lila Falls.

  It took several trips with the bucket, but soon everything was buried in a muddy grave. It took a moment to find Canstar’s service pistol in the mud on shore and clean it off. Then she slipped into Officer Canstar’s uniform, also burying her own clothes in the mud.

  She had one final problem: what to do with her own boat? Since she had stolen it in Georgia and stripped off any identifying registration, there was nothing that could tie the boat to her. This made the decision easy. She climbed back inside it, and transferred anything she needed to the FWC boat. Then she wiped every surface that might have her fingerprints. Rigging the gear lever with a rope, she started the engine, pushed it into forward and quickly jumped back into the FWC craft. The empty boat slowly sputtered and picked up speed, headed toward the middle of the channel. With any luck, it would cross the two-mile width of the river and ground into the bank on the far side.

  Problem solved.

  For all intents and purposes, Josette Laval was now FWC Officer Melanie Canstar. It was a charade she would not have to play for long. By no means was she going to try and fool other FWC officers, even though there was a resemblance between the two women. She would remain elusive, using the boat to patrol the waters only long enough to fulfill her task.

  Her disguise was for one purpose, and one purpose only: to kill Samuel Tolen.

  After towing the damaged boat back to the dock yesterday, things couldn’t have worked out better. She had a chance to engage Samuel Tolen personally. She had loathed him from the moment she laid eyes on him, but then, meeting him in person, experiencing his faux suave, calm demeanor, his disgusting arrogance, and his self-righteous attitude, she could barely contain herself. She was going to enjoy this.

  Still, she was intrigued by the bizarre clump of remains in Dr. Fall’s damaged vessel, and by the doctor’s strange disappearance. She had heard about the incident at Spring Park two days ago when another body had risen from the ground, and then the couple being swallowed in the sinkhole at the church. Something extraordinary appeared to be going on, and her curiosity was firmly aroused.

  She had lied to Tolen and those other two idiots about finding the damaged boat on Pacetti Point, across the river. She didn’t want to risk someone finding Melanie Canstar’s body on Bayard Point; at least not until her plan had run its course.

  Laval, posing as FWC Officer Melanie Canstar, was now circling through Johnson’s Cove, a mile west of Shands Bridge, when her attention was drawn to a recreational boater frantically waving and yelling. The man was in a kayak and wearing a bright orange life vest. Once he had gotten Laval’s attention, he motioned her toward the grassy shore and began paddling in the same direction. Laval came in, carefully watching the depth. She caught up to the man a short distance from the bank.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, dropping her speed as the engine quieted.

  “It’s over there. I think I know what it is, but I wasn’t about to touch it,” he said excitedly. Laval now saw that he was not a man, but a teenage boy, probably no older than 15 or 16.

  “What is it?” she asked in an annoyed tone.

  “Please, you go look. I don’t want to see it again,” he begged, halting his inward advance and pointing to a tall grass bed near shore.

  Laval looked at him with a scowl and then rechecked the LED monitor for the depth. It was three-and-a-half feet and holding. She raised the engine tilt a few degrees and pushed forward. The teenager remained behind turning his kayak to the side while watching the woman he thought was an FWC officer.

  As Laval neared the green grass, a small object floating on the surface between the reeds stood out. At first, it appeared to have no particular shape, but as the boat approached, the gruesome sight took form. Laval put the engine in idle as the bow of the boat nudged into the grass, and she almost ran over the dark, detached hand.

  She grabbed
an oar and pushed gently off the hard sand bottom to back the boat up. The hand, with fingers hovering mostly below the surface, briefly pulled away with the boat then floated free to Laval’s right.

  “Do you see it?” the teenager asked excitedly from behind.

  “Yes,” she said flatly. She leaned over the side to examine the hand closer as it bobbed in the easy swells. It was a left hand, consisting of four black, curled fingers and a thumb sticking outward at better than a 90-degree angle. It had been broken and bent back toward the wrist, assuming there had been a wrist.

  Might as well play the part, Laval thought. She retrieved a plastic bag from the glove compartment, pulled a small fishnet from a bow compartment, and gently netted the appendage from the water and drew it inside the boat. She laid the contents on the floor still inside the net.

  “It’s a hand, isn’t it?” the boy shouted.

  Laval did not reply. Instead, she retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket and tied it around her nose, acting as if she needed it to fend off the rising stench. She assumed it was how a real FWC officer would react. She looked up to see the teenager. To her surprise and relief, he was moving away, the kayak gliding atop the water at a quick pace. She started to yell for him to return but then decided against it. This acting shit was already getting old.

  Laval returned her attention to the net’s contents, which lay intertwined in the mesh. She found disposable gloves in the storage compartment and put on a pair. Cautiously grabbing the net handle, she slowly turned it so that the hand fell free on the floorboard. As it did, a finger detached and partially crumbled. There was a distinct metal sound as it disintegrated on the fiberglass floor.

  Somehow, the waterlogged hand had dried in a matter of seconds.