She pushed on, the beam guiding each step. The light wind was at her back, and she walked with purpose. She began to think of Terrence Courtland. The man had continued to evade police. Common sense suggested he had long ago left the North Florida area, given the police announcement he was wanted in connection with the murders; however, something told Fawn otherwise. Nothing about the man’s actions had been normal.
A shiver passed through her chest, and she turned, checking behind her. She raised the flashlight but saw nothing. She strolled faster.
The shore eventually banked to the west. She was now inside Fort Clinch State Park and had not encountered a barrier. The fort, nestled against Cumberland Sound, would be a mile or so away.
It was well over an hour from the time she had parked on A1A when she reached a low series of boulders that extended in a line from the top of the beach to the water, forming a jetty. Just beyond, a pier jutted into the Atlantic. Fawn used the light to navigate over the boulders. She then walked under the pier, between the piles, and followed the turning shore to the west. A short time later, a low, dark wall rose in the distance: Fort Clinch.
****
A shadowy figure lurked inside Fort Clinch State Park, staying to the woods, mirroring the main road. The figure moved lithely, destined for the rear of the park where the road ended at the wooden fence, which marked the entrance to the fort.
This was not the person’s first time here, but with any luck, it would be the last.
CHAPTER 47
The shore narrowed, and Fawn found the going tougher as she moved across uneven beach. Grass beds dotted the shore before her. The wind was now hitting Fawn from the side, heading offshore, sending her hair streaming across her face.
Keeping the flashlight low, she approached the fort’s North Bastion. The gloomy, austere wall reached upward. The ditch lined the structure’s facade, bringing back memories from Tuesday when she had remained hidden for hours among the weeds and muck.
Fawn leapt over the ditch. A wet, bland smell rose as she neared the slotted window. She was now shielded from the wind, but the silence bothered her.
She shined the flashlight through the window, examining the inside of the bastion. Then she slid through.
With the moon still cloaked, the bastion was mired in darkness. The flashlight beam roved the floor, walls, and into the spiraling, enclosed stairwell. She had an eerie sense that she was not alone. A sharp chill rolled over her, causing the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. Fawn withdrew the hammer, switching the block of wood to the hand holding the flashlight. She could use the hammer as a weapon, but prayed it was just her overactive anxiety that had her on edge.
Fawn walked slowly through the arched opening into the abbreviated courtyard. She kept the light along the ground, fearful of rodents or reptiles that might be moving in the earthen fold surrounding the fort between the curtain wall and the rampart.
When she reached the edge of the gallery, she wasted no time in using the block of wood against the crown brick, just as she had done before. A few well placed raps with the hammer, and the brick regressed with a sucking sound. Then she heard the rumbling of the wall trundling open in the bastion stairwell. She left the block of wood and slowly made her way into the bastion, and to the stairwell.
Fawn entered the stairwell cautiously, and then, unplanned, she decided to continue upward, past the wall opening to the bastion roof. It was a precautionary measure to ensure no one was there, waiting to follow her inside the opening.
A cursory examination of the roof proved it to be empty. Fawn shined the flashlight to the low walls and back. Suddenly the beam of light vanished.
“No,” Fawn moaned. She lifted the glass face of the flashlight, tightening the cap. The beam instantly reappeared, shining upward into the night.
“Oh thank god.”
Fawn returned half-way down the spiraling stairs to the secret opening. She tucked the hammer and flashlight into her pants. She thought of Sarah’s message to Coyle on the back of the painting and of the four black bricks on the wall in the room at the end of the narrow corridor. Hopefully, this was where treasure was hidden. If she could recover it, it would prove her father’s efforts had not been in vain.
Fawn turned and descended into the darkness, using the handhold cuts in the brick face. She moved slowly and cautiously, feeling her way unseen. The dim light above faded until she could barely see the opening in the stairwell.
When she reached the bottom, she turned the flashlight on. The room before her was empty. Yellow police tape hung across the corner where the thin grotto led to darkness.
Even though this would mean breaking the law again, Fawn recalled her father’s expression in the hospital bed that morning. His disposition had been maudlin, defeated, and it had pained her deeply. She was thankful to have him back in her life, yet she yearned to see life return to his eyes. If she could find the treasure, his decades old search would be justified. At that moment, she wanted more than anything else to see her father happy again.
Fawn slipped under the yellow police tape. She turned sideways, keeping the light before her, and pressed between the narrow brick walls. She felt the same pang of claustrophobia as before, but she remained focused, sliding sideways, one step at a time.
The thin, coarse corridor seemed longer this time. Maybe it was her anticipation. Maybe it was in knowing what awaited her if Sarah Courtland’s message on the back of the painting was true.
In time, Fawn reached the end and the room opened before her like a dark cave. The flashlight beam revealed the table had been pulled away from the wall. The old blankets were gone. The four candles were still on the floor, perched in each corner.
Fawn withdrew the hammer and wedge and laid them upon the table. Then she took the book of matches from her pocket and lit each of the four candles in turn before turning the flashlight off.
She moved to the side wall where the four black bricks prominently stood out from the red ones. They were arranged haphazardly.
Sarah Courtland had said the small box would be centered between the four black bricks.
Centered.
Fawn fished out the tape measure and pencil from her pocket. She was surprised to find another object, the MH key, also there. She vaguely remembered grabbing it from the counter this morning. She dropped it back into her pocket.
“Centered between the four black bricks, huh?” She took the tape measure and extended the metal strip. Starting at the brick at the top in the twelve o’clock position, she stretched the tape to the seven o’clock brick. She then drew a two-foot line against the metal tape at the approximate center. She did the same, running the tape from the nine o’clock-positioned brick to the four o’clock brick.
When she finished, she retracted the tape measure and placed it on the table. She returned to the wall, drawing a small circle at the point where the two lines intersected. Fawn retrieved the hammer and made several soft taps at points far outside the center.
This resulted in solid thuds.
Then she brought the hammer to the circle. Another series of brief taps.
This time there was a distinctive tinny sound. She continued, moving out to a radius of two feet or more before the thudding sound returned.
A pulse of excitement rushed through her. There’s a hollow space behind!
Fawn grabbed the wedge from the table and began chipping away at the mortar between two of the bricks. She started at a slow, methodical pace, but as the bricks chipped away, she increased speed. Twice she missed the wedge, once hitting her fingers with the head of the hammer, though the pain did not slow her. If anything, she continued faster, splintering away shards of brick.
Six…eight…ten minutes passed. She was sweating profusely.
Finally, she broke through the brick. It was a small hole, no more than a couple of inches, but it proved there w
as a pocket behind the wall. Fawn paused, grabbed the flashlight, and shined it inside.
****
Detective Mayes sat at his desk drumming his fingers. It had been a very long day, starting with the exploration of the secret room at Fort Clinch. Unfortunately, nothing had been found linking Terrence Courtland to the place.
Mayes had grown up as a linear thinker, but as a detective, he did not have this luxury. Things were not always so easily connected when it came to crimes, especially heinous crimes. Now he was postulating a new idea; he questioned if the man the FBI was pursuing was the killer. Or the only killer. The discrepancy between Elizabeth Courtland’s body and those of the victims before and afterward had led Mayes to a new theory.
When Elizabeth Courtland’s body was discovered, she had neither been scalped nor had a name etched upon her face. She did have the signature half-red face, which was the only trait known to the public.
Then, shortly after her body was discovered, but before the next victim was found, the FBI had a press conference giving the full details of the victims, including the words and scalping. The subsequent bodies were found with those exact features.
Mayes recalled FBI Special Agent Ustes had tried to taunt the killer at the televised press conference by mentioning that illegible words were found underneath the red paint. Come to think of it, the fact that there were clearly recognizable names on each victim had still not reached the press.
Mayes now believed the serial killer was responsible for all the murders except for Elizabeth Courtland. That crime was perpetrated by someone with an entirely different motive.
Like someone after treasure.
Mayes got the report on his desk just after 11 p.m. New information revealed that there were several days Mike Roberson had not attended the training classes in Connecticut. His supervisor reported he had called in sick. Corresponding to one of those absences, a man named Mike Roberson had flown into the Tallahassee airport.
Mayes picked up the phone and dialed the hospital. He reached the duty nurse.
“Lena,” the female voice answered.
“Lena, this is Detective Mayes with the Fernandina Police Department.”
“Yes, detective. What can I do for you?”
“I need to speak to Mike Roberson.”
“That’s not possible, he’s—”
“Lena, I’m well aware it’s outside visiting hours, but this is a police matter. I need to talk to him tonight.”
“I’d love to oblige, Detective, but I don’t know where he is. I found his room empty a while ago. His clothes are gone, and security is currently sweeping the hospital. I can’t imagine he’s strong enough to be walking, so I doubt he’s gone far.”
Detective Mayes hung up, grabbed his coat, and was on his way out the door. He was passing the front desk when he overheard Sergeant Duvall and paused. The burly officer looked annoyed.
“You guys are the freakin’ security company. You’re the ones making the big money.” Sergeant Duvall sounded incensed with a phone pressed to his face.
Silence. Duvall reddened.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
More silence.
“Yeah, I got ya. We’ll send a car over.”
He hung up with a thud.
Mayes spoke. “Sarge, I need you to alert patrolling officers to be on the lookout for Mike Roberson. It’s in connection with the serial killings. He was a patient at the hospital but disappeared from his room a short time ago.”
The sergeant nodded.
Detective Mayes took a step then paused, turning back to the sergeant. “By the way, what was that call about?”
“Mylar Security. Got the contract for Fort Clinch last year. Those guys are imbeciles. They got a perimeter sensor going off and want us to respond. What in the hell are they gettin’ paid for if we have to respond? Probably a friggin’ squirrel tripped it.”
Detective Mayes thought for a moment. “Send a car over right away. I’m going, too.”
Mayes left Sergeant Duvall with a questioning stare.
****
The beam of light cut through the darkness revealing a flat, shiny wall. Fawn strained to understand what she was looking at. The candles in the room suddenly flickered, sending her silhouette dancing across the wall. She was startled by a noise behind her. Fawn whirled around and screamed.
A dark figure screamed back at her. Its over-sized head flared, as if the ends were charged with electricity. Fawn dropped the flashlight and it shattered on the floor.
They both continued to scream.
Fawn stopped, as did the other figure. She placed a hand to her chest, nearly breathless.
“Jesus, Ralston. You almost gave me a heart attack!”
Ralston pushed the dreadlocks out of his face, leaning back against the wall, catching his breath. “You? What about me? My heart is pounding.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Mike was concerned about you. He told me you mentioned the treasure was here, in this room. He was afraid you might go after it.”
“Mike?”
“Yeah, he called me.”
“But…I never mentioned you to him. At least, I don’t think I did.”
“You must have. He knew exactly who I was.”
Fawn searched her memory. The last 24 hours had been a whirlwind of events. If she had told Mike, it would have been last night when she returned to the hospital after being released from the police station. She had been so tired. She was not sure.
Ralston looked to the wall behind her. “What are you doing?”
She turned and pointed. “There was a painting in Elizabeth Courtland’s house. The same house Coyle and his wife had built in 1859. The painting was an original by Sarah Courtland. It was a shell against a white wall. It was identical to what Osceola had said; it was in her letter to Coyle. Sarah feared someone else would discover the iron container at the shell mound so she went there to move the treasure. All she found was one small iron box, which she hid. She knew Coyle would figure out the ‘shell against the white’ and it would lead him to the painting inside his own house. Sure enough, on the back of the painting, she left a message with instructions where to bury Osceola’s body inside this room and that Coyle would find the treasure between the four black bricks.” She pointed to the bricks.
Ralston stared in amazement. “What’s in the box?”
“Sarah Courtland didn’t say. She never opened it.”
Ralston moved before the opening. A shiny surface gleamed back at them.
She spoke excitedly. “It’s got to be the iron box Sarah Courtland mentioned.”
Nudging aside the pieces of the broken flashlight with his foot, Ralston took the hammer and wedge. He began working on the small hole and quickly enlarged it to the size of a baseball. Fragments of brick sprinkled to the hard floor as he went.
Fawn watched, her excitement growing as Ralston hammered furiously. He quickly expanded the opening two-fold. The iron box was several inches back, hidden in the shadows.
“Shhh. Hold on.” Fawn said, grabbing his hand.
“What?”
“I thought I heard something.”
They both remained motionless, listening, but there was absolute quiet. “I think you’re spooked, Fawn.”
She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Guess so.”
Ralston continued his assault upon the wall. Soon, they could see the two-foot-long by one-foot-tall iron box was resting upon a free-standing brick shelf. A line cut through the midsection, separating the top and bottom halves. In the center was a small square with a cutout opening.
Fawn noticed Ralston was growing weary. Perspiration dripped from his forehead, and his dreadlocks flew this way and that with each swing of the hammer. She offered to relieve him, and he accepted.
Fawn wo
rked for the next ten minutes. Finally, they were able to work the iron box from side to side and pull it through the opening. It was moderately heavy, and a slight shift of weight confirmed there was indeed something inside.
Excitedly, they brought it to the table. Ralston tried to lift the top, but it didn’t budge. Fawn looked at the cutout opening and could now see it was a keyhole.
“Ralston, look!”
“Great. It takes a key. Un-freakin’-believable.”
Fawn couldn’t suppress her grin. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the MH key. She held it up for Ralston to admire.
He looked at her with a wealth of surprise and elation. “You think it’s the right key?”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
She knelt before the iron box and inserted the key. It slid inside with ease. Fawn rose, placing a hand on top, and turned the key clockwise. There was a satisfying click of the tumbler and the top of the iron box disengaged from the base.
Fawn drew in a quick breath. She looked at Ralston with a wild smile. He returned her gaze with his own anticipation.
Fawn slowly lifted the iron top. A green, crumpled material lay underneath in a rising wad. With a shaking hand, Fawn reached forward, found a corner of the material and drew it back.
Even in the recessed candlelight, what they saw in the iron case before them was breathtaking.
Lying on dark material was a gold crown intermingled with ivory swirls. The front bowed up, forming a crest adorned with the image of a serpent. Deep colors—green, blue, and red—blazed from the lower body surface, forming an intricate inlaid pattern. A solid clear band ran around the top and bottom of the crown.
Fawn recalled Jonathan Pierce’s words about the Zaile treasure.
“Oh, I almost forgot one of the most intriguing aspects of the story. One of the items said to be among the Spanish Galleon Zaile treasure that the SS Pearsaw was transporting was the 100/80/60/60 crown. A solid gold headpiece, it was said to have 100 diamonds, 80 emeralds, 60 sapphires and 60 rubies festooned to it in eloquent array. The precious gems were some of the most valuable ever discovered among the Aztec civilization. Such a compilation, if it existed, would be virtually priceless.”
Three Keys to Murder Page 37