Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

  “Reverend, something unusual is going on,” Fawn began. She told of her visit to Rufus and Reggie Tinney’s cabin on the creek. While she chose not to elaborate, she mentioned that both men were missing, and one was presumed dead based on remains found at their property.

  Reverend Reed was appalled. He had not heard about their disappearance.

  Not only does news not travel fast here, Fawn thought, sometimes it doesn’t travel at all.

  “Reverend, you mentioned an older man was sitting in the pew on Friday when the Turners fell through the floor,” Fawn referenced the list of names he had provided her and read the last one, “Lawton Sawyer. And you said he wasn’t one of the volunteers that day.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did you ever find out what he was doing in the sanctuary?”

  “No, not a clue, Fawn. Mr. Sawyer is up in his nineties, and I haven’t seen him in church in years. It was quite the surprise to see him there.”

  Fawn sighed. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped to accomplish by returning to the church, but it was obvious the clergyman couldn’t provide answers. She glanced at the wall behind Reverend Reed, at a framed black-and-white photograph of a church with the congregation standing out front. The picture appeared quite old, and style of clothing the people wore was reminiscent of the 1920s or 1930s. She had already guessed from the architectural design of the church that it was from the 1800s, but wanted to confirm. “Reverend, how old is this church?”

  “Older than me. The main sanctuary dates to the late 1880s. It’s pretty much the same as it was the day it was completed. The only thing different is the choir chamber has been expanded and a storage closet added. Both were improvements completed in 1935. Beyond that, it’s as it was originally constructed.” A sudden look of remembrance came over Reverend Reed. “You know, there was one thing that I found strange after all the rescue workers left last night. The storage closet at the rear of the sanctuary was slightly ajar.”

  “Is it normally locked?”

  “No, but I figured one of the workers had opened it for one reason or another, although they claimed they had not.”

  “Is anything of value kept there?”

  “No,” the reverend scoffed, “quite the contrary: some cleaning supplies, a few votive candles, and a dead-letter box.”

  “A dead-letter box?”

  “It’s an accumulation of letters received by the church for members we couldn’t locate. The church has always believed in keeping the letters in the event that the recipient or a relative arrives to claim them. In rare cases, it has happened.”

  “How old are the letters?”

  “I believe the oldest goes back to the latter part of World War II. There’s probably a hundred or more in the box total, all unopened.”

  “Why would someone send mail to the church for a member? Why not to the member’s home?” Fawn asked.

  “Sometimes people know people only by the church they attend. That was especially true before 1960. It was common for folks to use their church as their primary mailing address because their house was so far out in the sticks, the post office wouldn’t deliver. Just a matter of convenience, I guess.”

  Fawn started to ask the reverend if she could look at the dead-letter box, then thought better of it. “Thanks for your time, Reverend,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.

  “Certainly, Fawn. I hope you find whatever it is you’re after.”

  “That’s the problem. I still don’t know what it is I’m looking for.”

  “Often, we wander in our day-to-day lives. Just know that God has a clear plan for each of us.”

  Fawn left Reverend Reed’s office and headed toward her car in the parking lot. She surveyed the only road leading in and out, then climbed in her car and drove it back through the woods.

  Driving no more than several hundred feet, she saw a cut in the woods and turned into it. It wasn’t deep, but provided enough cover that someone passing by probably wouldn’t notice the car parked there. She got out and slowly walked down the road back toward the church.

  With the sanctuary cordoned off, and Reverend Reed’s description of the building possibly being structurally unstable, she knew it would have been fruitless to ask his permission to examine the sanctuary closet and the dead-letter box. Something told her that it might hold some answers to whatever Lawton Sawyer had been doing on Friday afternoon prior to the floor swallowing the Turners. Thus, she had made a decision to sneak into the church. Her reporter’s instincts were kicking in. She knew she was taking a risk, but her curiosity now drove her actions.

  When she reached the parking lot, Fawn raced to the side of the sanctuary, keeping a watchful eye out for any other people. As far as she could tell, besides herself, the reverend was the only person on the property at the moment. The temperature was climbing. Fawn wiped the perspiration off her forehead, and brushed her bangs to either side.

  Slowly, she edged along the side of the structure, keeping watch on the small office building. She reached the corner and hesitated. Once she rounded it and approached the entrance, she would be out in the open. Reverend Reed’s office faced the other direction and was without windows, but if he happened to come outside, she would be seen.

  No risk, no reward.

  Fawn took a deep breath and dashed toward the open sanctuary door. Exposed, she felt like it took her forever to reach it. Once she did, she slipped through, gliding under the yellow tape, careful not to tear it.

  Inside, it was sweltering. The air conditioner had been turned off. She turned and now saw why the door was left open. The door had partially given way, holding on by the lower hinges where it was propped inside.

  Ahead, light cascaded down in colorful streaks, piercing through from the stained glass windows. Rows and rows of pews led to the altar, but in the center was the damage she had seen yesterday, the tremendous gap in the pews that formed a near perfect circle. Barricades were assembled around the cavity even though earth now filled in the area.

  Fawn turned and found a door in the side wall of the narthex. She made her way toward it, feeling almost as if she were swimming through the stifling humidity. She swung the door open and was met with darkness. Reaching around to the side wall, Fawn found a light switch and flipped it on. A single bare bulb above cast limp light throughout the deep closet.

  As Reverend Reed had said, there were various cleaning supplies—mops, buckets, a broom, cans of rug cleaner, etc. A low shelf on the left held a series of candles, mostly red. In the far-right corner was a large, worn box which had been reinforced more than once with aging duct and packing tape. She quietly closed the closet door behind her. The enclosure was eerily quiet. Fawn moved to the back of the closet where a box lay with the four flaps on top open. The box was filled almost to the brim with envelopes of all sizes. The top envelope—brown, brittle, and with ink that had smeared over time—immediately caught her attention. While the other envelopes were stacked neatly in the box, this one seemed thrown in haphazardly. Even with the ink smudge, she saw that it was addressed to a Cora Sawyer. Given that the old man in the pew’s name was Lawton Sawyer, the coincidence was too overwhelming. She picked up the fragile envelope, noticing the post mark as Miami, Florida. The right edge had a thin cut that ran the width of the envelope.

  Someone had opened it.

  She blew on the end, and it flared open. It was empty.

  A noise startled Fawn. It sounded like it came from the sanctuary. She gently but quickly folded the envelope and put it in her pocket, then, moving to the closet door, she switched the light off. Standing in the dark, she could hear her own excited breathing. Several minutes passed and all was quiet. She eventually cracked the closet door open enough to ensure no one was around, then she scampered out, only now aware of how much she was perspiring. She stealthily made her way outside and around the corner of the san
ctuary. Shielded by the building, she jogged back down the road toward her car.

  When she reached it, she pulled out her phone and found the address for Lawton Sawyer.

  CHAPTER 39

  As they approached the dock of Taylor Barton’s riverhome, Scott called Kay’s cell phone. It rang six times and rolled over to her voicemail.

  “Hey, it’s me, just checking on you guys. Give me a call when you have a moment. I want to know how Cody’s doing after last night.”

  Tolen angled the Bayliner to the end of the dock, and Scott and Curt climbed out. Tolen tossed Scott the lead rope, and he tied the boat off on a cleat.

  “Mind if I come inside?” Tolen asked.

  “Please,” Scott responded.

  Curt just shrugged.

  Scott understood his friend’s ambivalence. Unfortunately, the trip to Bayard Point, while staggering historically with the find of the cartouche of Hatshepsut and the possible knowledge she had been entombed there, had done nothing to yield insight into what happened to Dr. Lila Falls or what had attacked Cody on the dock last night.

  Tolen shut the motor off and climbed onto the deck.

  As the three men walked quietly toward the foot of the long dock, Scott looked beyond to the back of the house in the distance. It took a moment to register that the back door was open.

  “Someone’s in the house,” Scott said, and took off at a sprint.

  Curt and Tolen were on his heels. By the time Scott reached the backyard, he was flying in long strides. Whoever was there was not going to get away. He reached the back deck at a dead run and vaulted up the steps and straight through the open back door. He was vaguely aware of Tolen calling for him to stop and let him go first, but he was having none of it. First, something had nearly killed his son and wife, and now someone had broken into the place where he was staying: his boss’s place. His anger was pushing him blindly.

  Scott ran through the den, glanced into the kitchen and living room, and nearly tripped on debris. He raced through the hallway and into each room, again stepping awkwardly across piles of things that shouldn’t be there.

  The house was empty.

  He stopped and returned to the living room to join the other two men. He was panting. “Son of a bitch,” he yelled, looking about. The entire house had been ransacked. Papers were everywhere, piled with the stuffing from the furniture which had been thoroughly destroyed. Everything that was previously on the walls—paintings, framed pictures, clocks—was now on the ground in fragments. Cabinets and drawers were opened and splintered or completely broken. Dishes, plates, and glasses had been thrown on the kitchen floor without regard. It was as if a tornado had ripped through the house leaving nothing but carnage.

  “Jesus,” Curt muttered.

  “Was Cora Sawyer’s journal with Ed Leedskalnin’s story here?” Tolen asked.

  Scott looked at Curt. The two men walked gingerly to the kitchen counter. “I left it right here,” Scott said. “Someone took it.”

  “This wasn’t a simple burglary, Scott. These were men with a purpose,” Tolen said.

  Scott suddenly had a bad feeling. He moved through the debris to the front door and stepped outside. Thank God, he said to himself when he didn’t see Kay’s car. He was worried she had returned and had been here when the house was broken into. He pulled out his cellphone and called Kay. When it rang without answer, his internal alarm went off. “I’ve got to go back to Jacksonville and check on Kay and the kids,” he said to Curt and Tolen, who had followed him out front.

  “While you’re doing that, Curt and I are going to pay Mr. Lawton Sawyer a visit,” Tolen said.

  “We are?” Curt seemed surprised.

  “Yes, there’s something Mr. Sawyer didn’t tell Scott.”

  “Like what?” Scott asked as he reached into his pocket for his keys.

  “Consider that you left Cora Sawyer’s journal in the open on the counter, but whoever was here still tore the house apart.”

  Scott suddenly understood. “Whoever did this was after something else.”

  “And I suspect Lawton Sawyer may be able to shed some light on who was here and what it is they were after,” Tolen said.

  CHAPTER 40

  Fawn turned down a washboard dirt road on the western outskirts of town. She had to drive slowly through a series of turns before she finally broke free of the woods to find a two-story wooden house on a lot barren of trees, with the exception of a massive oak on the left. Weeds had long ago taken over the yard. There was an old blue car on the side of the house.

  Fawn parked and reached the steps leading up to the wraparound porch. A feeling of déjà vu swept over her, and she paused. Only yesterday, she had approached a dwelling unannounced and that had not turned out well, yet she was certain that Lawton Sawyer somehow factored into the events at the church, and ultimately, to the notes she’d obtained from Lindsey McSweet. She couldn’t stop now.

  Fawn took a deep breath and climbed the steps. She arrived at the rotten screen door and gently knocked. Only then did she realize she had no idea what she was going to say to Mr. Sawyer. She quickly concocted a story that she was working with the state engineers responsible for determining the structural integrity of the chapel, and she just had a few questions for him.

  The story sounded weak. He’ll never believe it, Fawn, she told herself. She quickly thought up another angle: she represented the insurance company that covered the church. As someone in attendance at the unfortunate event where Jack and Tonya Turner had perished, she needed a statement from him as to what he was doing there and what he saw.

  That would be much better, as long as he didn’t ask for credentials.

  Fawn rapped again on the decrepit screen door, harder this time, realizing that the man was of an advanced age and possibly hard of hearing.

  Still her knocks went unanswered. She immediately got a bad feeling.

  Fawn carefully opened the screen door and found the door behind it slightly ajar.

  She called out, “Mr. Sawyer? Are you here?”

  She waited for a response. None came.

  “Mr. Sawyer?”

  Maybe the man was napping, although it was midmorning, so it wasn’t very likely.

  Fawn pushed the door, and it opened with a creak.

  A shiver ran over her body. Every instinct told her to leave, but she fought it off.

  “Mr. Sawyer?” she called again in a strong voice.

  Fawn hesitated then willed herself forward, stepping into a small foyer. To the left, down a short hallway was a staircase. On the right, a doorway led into a den and a kitchen beyond. She continued to call Lawton Sawyer with no response. The only sound was from a wall-unit air conditioner nearby that, surprisingly, had the temperature of the house feeling pleasant compared to the summer humidity she had experienced at the sanctuary.

  Fawn eased into the den. A coffee table was stacked with old magazines, but it was the single sheet of paper, creased in three sections, that caught her eye. She leaned over, picked up the yellowed, brittle sheet of paper, and read it.

  Fawn felt the excitement of revelation. There was little doubt that this was the letter from the envelope in the dead-letter box.

  Fawn suddenly detected a faint, putrid smell.

  She laid the letter back on the table. “Mr. Sawyer?” she called one more time.

  She passed through the den into the kitchen. A second entryway led back into the hallway before the stairs. Here, the stench strengthened.

  Fawn’s stomach turned. A memory singed her mind: the recollection of discovering Elizabeth Courtland’s decaying body in her house at Fernandina Beach last year.

  Fawn looked up the stairs. The smell was drifting down from the second floor. She was sure of it.

  Carefully, fighting every instinct to run, she began up the stairs.

 
Oh, Fawn, what are you doing?

  When she reached the top landing, any doubt that the stench originated on the second floor was gone. It was nearly overwhelming and an all-too-familiar odor.

  It was the smell of death.

  The hallway ahead was dark. Fawn stopped in her tracks as she made out the crumpled body on the floor ahead in the shadows. She found a light switch and, with a shaking hand, flipped it on. The low-wattage bulb cast a murky glow on the pale figure. The smell seemed to escalate. Fawn clapped her hand over her nose and mouth in a vain attempt to filter the reeking air. She moved forward slowly, sliding one foot ahead, then the other. Any hope that Lawton Sawyer might still be alive faded when she drew close enough to see his head. His face was a bloody tract of lines, as if someone had played a demented game of tic-tac-toe. His neck had been sliced from ear to ear: a huge gash that exposed his throat, larynx and Adam’s apple. Blood had accumulated in a thick, festering pool, which was already a haven for a swarm of flies that stirred as Fawn looked on the grisly scene.

  She could take no more. Fawn turned and staggered down the stairs, lightheaded. By the time she reached the first floor, everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 41

  After Scott left, Curt watched Tolen hide his boat keys underneath the back deck outside. They climbed into Curt’s Mustang, and Tolen retrieved Lawton Sawyer’s address using his smartphone.

  Twenty minutes later, after crossing the river via the Shands Bridge and arriving on the Green Cove Springs side, they reached the dirt road that led to Lawton Sawyer’s house. Curt followed the rough path, weaving through the woods until they reached an old two-story house. Surprisingly, there were two cars parked near it—an old, blue AMC vehicle and a white Chevrolet Malibu.

  “Stop here,” Tolen instructed. “The AMC is Sawyer’s. I’ve seen it around town for years.” Tolen drew his pistol from inside his coat. “I’ve never seen the other one before.”