Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “I must explain some history first. I assume being from the area that you are familiar with the French Huguenot settlement, Fort Caroline, on the banks of the St. Johns River in Jacksonville?”

  Curt nodded.

  “In 1564, two brothers, Pinot and Guillaume LeFlore, came from France and joined the small force there to help guard the earthen fort from possible attacks by the Spanish in St. Augustine 35 miles to the south.

  “Sometime just prior to the settlement’s destruction by the Spanish in November 1565, Pinot and Guillaume left Fort Caroline and struck out on their own heading south, but they became separated. Guillaume never did find Pinot and eventually traveled toward what is now Texas and then turned south. Over many years, he wound up all the way here in Bolivia, where Guillaume settled to live out the remainder of his life. He built this building we are in with his own hands, and it has been here for all that time; refurbished and partially rebuilt, but it has nonetheless held the design of Guillaume’s original structure.”

  Already Curt doubted the monk’s word. He suddenly regretted making the trip and dragging Scott along. “I apologize, but I don’t understand the relevance,” he said, trying to temper his disappointment. “Quite frankly, I’m unaware of any records or evidence that suggests any Frenchmen survived the Fort Caroline massacre. Are you claiming to be a descendent of Guillaume LeFlore?”

  The monk’s hazel-green eyes froze on Curt. He seemed to regard the comment for a moment. He released a long exhale, then placed the sombrero back on his head. “No, I am not a descendent; just one of a long line of holy men who have chosen to maintain this place over the years.” Then he rose. “Please come with me.”

  He took the men back outside and down the steps. Curt drew his coat around him to fend off the cold breeze. The monk led them around the building to the back. Like the front, there were no windows in any of the walls.

  Against the back of the building was a low, chained, rectangular area with a weathered headstone.

  The monk stopped and turned to the two men. “I know of Guillaume and Pinot LeFlore from Guillaume’s journal. It was kept on a shelf in the lower room of this building for centuries until it was regrettably lost in a fire seven years ago, but I recall his story well. What I have told you is the truth. It is what was written. And this,” the monk pointed to the marker, “is where the man’s earthly remains rest. He crafted and inscribed the headstone before his death. I assume neither of you know French.” He said. “Even if you could read it, Guillaume documented in his journal that poor penmanship ran in the LeFlore family. I’ll translate since I’ve had experience interpreting his writing.”

  Guillaume LeFlore

  An honest and good man

  Born 1543

  Died 1622

  Curt gave Scott a furtive glance. This has to be a ruse.

  “Father En,” Scott said, “I’m still confused as to how any of this ties to the man from the gunpowder magazine.”

  “The man who emerged from the sealed room at the Castillo in St. Augustine had a triton-shaped birthmark along his right jawbone. Those were your exact words, correct, Mr. Lohan?”

  Curt nodded.

  “Guillaume’s journal was very descriptive. He described a man with the identical triton-shaped birthmark on his right jawbone: his brother Pinot.”

  Father En continued before either Scott or Curt could object. “Was anything else found with Pinot when the sealed room was opened? You were one of the first men inside, Mr. Lohan. Did you find anything?”

  Curt shook his head. “No.” There was a slight pause. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “You’re suggesting Pinot LeFlore was the man who emerged last month from the gunpowder magazine?” Scott asked. “A man who would have to be nearly 500 years old? Not to mention he would have survived for hundreds of years in an enclosure with no food, water, or air?”

  The monk nodded. “It is time for prayer. Thank you again for coming.” He walked away, leaving Scott and Curt looking at each other with a blend of confusion and deep disappointment.

  “Do you believe we came all the way to Bolivia for this nugget of information?” Curt said after the monk had disappeared around the corner of the building. “You were right. The monk’s a whack.” He sighed.

  “At least I got a new coat out of the trip,” Scott said.

  Curt had nothing left to comment. He looked again at the headstone in disgust and thought for a moment. He pulled out his phone, and set it to camera. He snapped a picture of the headstone.

  “What are you doing?” Scott asked.

  “Regardless of Father En’s absurd claim, it will make an interesting discovery if we can substantiate these are the remains of a 16th-century Fort Caroline settler.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Saturday, August 13, 1:42 p.m. – La Paz, Bolivia

  On the drive back to the airport in La Paz, Scott and Curt talked at length regarding the monk’s preposterous claim, even though it pained Curt to do so. Almost nothing Father En had said made sense or could possibly be substantiated.

  Curt spoke, “Disregarding the monk’s premise Subject X was a 500-year-old French Huguenot, the timing was wrong for Pinot LeFlore to have been sealed in the Castillo. The LeFlores came to the New World in 1565. The Castillo wasn’t constructed until 1695, one hundred and thirty years later.”

  “Curt, what about the triton-shaped birthmark? Could it have been a tattoo, instead? You know, for some affiliation, maybe?”

  “We’ll know definitely once the autopsy report is released. If it was a tattoo, it will be identified as such in the findings.”

  Scott asked, “And what if it is a birthmark?”

  “It’s still a moot point. We’re going on Father En’s word there was a journal by Guillaume LeFlore and that Guillaume described his brother Pinot with the identical birthmark. It just seems a little too convenient that the journal was destroyed in a fire so recently, meaning there’s no way to check the validity. I’m sorry, Scott. This was the mother of all wild goose hunts, and I formally go on record to apologize for bringing you to Bolivia.”

  “I believe that’s what Butch Cassidy said to the Sundance Kid right before they were ambushed by the entire Bolivian Army,” Scott smirked.

  Scott and Curt’s flight out of La Paz Airport was delayed four hours, leaving shortly after 9:30 p.m. and causing havoc to the rest of their flight itinerary. They missed every subsequent connecting flight and finally arrived into Jacksonville International Airport at 1:18 p.m. Sunday afternoon. Scott called Kay the moment they touched down.

  The two men were exhausted as they stood by the baggage carousel waiting for their luggage. Scott’s bag came off first, but it took several minutes for Curt’s to appear. He felt a wave of relief and finality as he plucked his suitcase from the belt and turned to leave. As he did, a little girl bumped into Curt and tumbled at his feet. She landed hard on her palms and began crying.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Curt asked, setting his bag down and gently lifting the girl to her feet. She appeared to be about six. The girl rubbed the palms of her hands and fought back more tears as Curt softly brushed her blonde bangs from her eyes. “Are your hands okay?”

  “You!” a woman screamed. “Get away from my little girl!” The woman rushed to Curt, grabbed the girl, dropped her suitcase in the process, then retreated several steps away.

  “Hey, I was only trying to help,” Curt defended himself. “She fell on me.”

  The red-haired mother looked at Curt suspiciously. Curt saw absolute distrust in her beautiful green eyes.

  “It’s true,” Scott finally spoke up. “He doesn’t touch six-year-olds; at least not since he was six.”

  She looked from Scott to Curt with incredulousness, then down at her daughter. “Tina, did that man try to touch you?”

  Tina sho
ok her head no. “He picked me up.”

  “Um...let me restate that,” Curt cut in. “I helped her up...after she fell.”

  A dozen or so people had now gathered round. Curt could not remember feeling so uncomfortable, especially given his complete innocence.

  The woman gave Curt one last derogatory stare, then grabbed her bag and turned brusquely, leading her daughter away.

  “Whew! Scary woman,” Scott said. “She reminds me of a mother badger. Don’t touch their young.”

  “Scary beautiful,” Curt said. “Oh, and by the way, ‘Not since I was six?’ Really? You’re supposed to be my wing man...not wing me.”

  “I’m married. You’re on your own.”

  An hour and 20 minutes later, after dropping Scott off at his home in Jacksonville, Curt arrived at his house in the historical district of downtown St. Augustine. He was exhausted. He carried his suitcase into the house, intending to unpack and take a nap.

  He tossed the suitcase on the bed. He was about to open it when he paused. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but the dark blue color of the outer fabric seemed to have lightened a few shades. He unzipped it and swung the top open to find an assortment of blouses, skirts, pant suits, blue jeans, a hair dryer, makeup bag, and several pairs of women’s shoes.

  It was either the worst practical joke Scott had ever played on him, or he had grabbed the wrong bag at the airport. He remembered checking the name tag when he removed his suitcase from the baggage carousel, but that was before the incident with the woman and her little girl. He had dropped his bag to help the girl up and must have picked up the wrong suitcase.

  He looked on the identification tag and found a name, address and phone number. He dialed the number from his cell phone.

  “Hello?” a female voice answered.

  “Hello, yes,” Curt started. “Is this Sherri Falco?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Curt Lohan. I somehow picked up your suitcase at Jacksonville International Airport this afternoon.”

  “Oh my God, I’m so relieved. You’re not going to believe this, but I have your suitcase. I was just about to call you.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that. Are you staying in Jacksonville?”

  “No, I’m in St. Augustine.”

  Curt felt a rush of good luck. “Perfect. I live there...here, I mean. Where are you now, and I’ll bring it by?”

  “I’m at the Radisson Hotel on San Marco Avenue. Room 229.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Curt hung up, grabbed the suitcase, and climbed back in his Mustang. He would exchange bags and be back to his house in no time.

  Curt arrived at the Radisson to find a packed parking lot. The summer tourism season was in full swing. Curt suspected this Sherri Falco from New Brunswick, New Jersey, was probably here with her husband and children on vacation like so many other families.

  He exited the car into a light summer shower which had begun to fall minutes before. Tourists peppered the sidewalk, scurrying for shelter, covering their heads with newspapers and other makeshift shields. The slight rain only served to intensify the humidity. Perspiration formed across his brow, mingling with the rain as he reached the door to the lobby.

  He took the elevator to the second floor, where he found Room 229, and rapped on the door. A strange twinge of déjà vu coursed through him as he heard the faint chatter of a little girl on the other side of the door. He suddenly felt strong apprehension. The handle turned and the door swung inward.

  Fate could be rather cruel.

  Curt grinned uncomfortably and held up the suitcase to the red-haired mom standing before him. Now wearing raggedy blue jeans and a tee shirt that was much too large, her surprise was evident. “You?”

  “I didn’t plan this,” Curt said. He was tired and wanted to avoid further conflict.

  Sherri Falco stood in place, staring at him warily.

  “Look,” he started, “I’ve spent the last day in airports and on airplanes. I’m exhausted. All I want is to give you back your bag and get mine, and then I’ll be out of here.”

  The young girl came to stand beside her mother. “Tina, go sit down please,” Sherri said.

  “Mommy, he didn’t hurt me. I ran into his leg, and he helped me up. He’s not a bad man.”

  “No, he’s not,” Curt reiterated, smiling favorably at Tina as she backed away to the bed.

  Sherri continued to eye Curt suspiciously.

  Curt blinked slowly, feeling exhausted. He spoke in slow, concise words, “Here.” He handed the suitcase to her. She took it, laying it to the side. “Could I please have my suitcase now?”

  She turned and walked to the sink where she pulled his suitcase out from beneath it. She returned to the door and handed it to him without saying a word. The mistrust was obvious.

  “Thank you,” he said with as much courtesy as he could muster. He pointed to her suitcase on the floor. “It’s all there. None of the clothes fit me.” It was a stupid line, and he was not sure why he said it.

  She stared at him stoically.

  Suitcase in hand, he turned and walked away, leaving Sherri standing in the open doorway.

  “Hey, Curt Lohan,” she shouted.

  Curt stopped and turned.

  “Are you related to—?”

  “No,” Curt said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sunday, August 14, 3:51 p.m. – Ponte Vedra Beach, Florida

  Thick warm air blew in from the beach two blocks away as 64-year-old Sydney Couperin, Sunday newspaper in hand, opened his back door and stepped onto the wooden patio. He picked up a plastic chair and moved it to the front corner of the deck. It was the only shady spot. He had the large palm tree against the back fence to thank. He sat down, fidgeting in place as he tried to get comfortable.

  Sure, he lived in the middle of “hurricane central,” with one recent scare and more storms building in the Atlantic, but it was worth it. The setting could be as serene as a postcard, and the absolute quiet calmed a man’s soul.

  He was to meet his niece and grandniece at a restaurant in St. Augustine at 6:30 p.m. He found it interesting, if not coincidental, that Sherri’s new assignment had temporarily brought her back to Northeast Florida. She had lived in the northeast the last decade. In that time, she married, had a child, established her career, and divorced. Sherri had always been Sydney’s favorite niece, and this was the first time he would get to meet his grandniece, Tina, in person. It was an opportunity he very much looked forward to.

  Sydney opened the newspaper, feeling a general tiredness settle in. He had been conducting research on the Internet for hours and had worked straight through lunch, even refusing to answer his phone which, for some reason, had rung off the hook this morning. So far, his efforts had revealed nothing of significance, and now he desperately needed a break. Reading the Sunday paper on his patio was one of life’s little joys for Sydney, so it was with some anticipation that he removed the wrapper and unfolded it, exposing the front page of the St. Augustine Record. The headline struck with force:

  Third Accidental Death Among Group Present at Opening of Gunpowder Magazine

  St. Augustine, FL. Martin John, park ranger at the Castillo de San Marcos, died from injuries sustained in an automobile accident last night when he apparently fell asleep at the wheel of his Ford truck while driving southbound on US Highway 1. He is the third accidental-death victim from among those in attendance at the opening of the sealed gunpowder magazine in the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument on July 7th.

  The opening of the ancient room at the Castillo became a scene of horror when a crazed man emerged, attacking several people in attendance, and was subsequently shot by St. Johns County Deputy, Miles Nasherton, who died two weeks ago when he slipped and fell in his shower. Before that, Dr. Bernice Fine drowned while swimming at Vi
lano Beach. Authorities believe the as-yet-unidentified man either managed to enter the room several hours prior to the opening or had disguised himself as a member of the press and somehow entered the room without being seen.

  Some are comparing these deaths to the curse that was said to have surrounded the opening of King Tutankhamen’s tomb in 1923 by Sir Howard Carter when numerous prominent members in attendance died within a short time, including the project financier, Lord Carnarvon.

  “Damn,” Sydney said under his breath. There was more to the story, but it was more speculation and conjecture. The deaths concerned him, not the notion of some ridiculous curse.

  ****

  Sherri and Tina opted for an indoor table at the Conch House restaurant to avoid the heat. Even at dusk on the Intracoastal Waterway, the warmth outside was stifling. The brief rain shower earlier in the afternoon had quickly evaporated and caused the humidity to escalate.

  Once Sherri had learned she would be assigned to St. Augustine, a 40-minute coastline drive from Sydney’s home in Ponte Vedra Beach, she had made plans for dinner. Her mother and father were both deceased, and being an only child, Uncle Sydney was her last remaining close family member.

  It had been a decade since she had last seen her uncle, yet when he entered the restaurant, she recognized him instantly. His light brown hair was combed straight back, curled behind his ears. Oddly, he looked more youthful than she recalled.

  “My dear, so good to see you,” Sydney said as he arrived at the table and gave Sherri an affectionate hug. He smiled, and his suntanned brow and eyes crinkled with age lines. An even broader grin blossomed across his face as he turned to Tina. “And you must be Ms. Tina Falco,” he continued, taking a seat. “It is an extreme pleasure to meet you, young lady.” Sydney extended his hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you, too,” Tina responded coyly, taking his proffered hand and giving it a soft shake. She looked to her mother, who gave her an approving wink.