Death in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 1)

by Gary Williams

  “I’m so happy to be able to spend time with you both. Fancy your New York job bringing you home to Florida. Isn’t it funny where life takes you? I guess it’s true we’re all just along for the ride.”

  “Actually, we’re based in New Brunswick, New Jersey.”

  “People here in Florida have convinced me the Northeast is all one big extension of New York City.”

  Sherri laughed. “And the people up there are convinced everyone in the south is related.”

  “Touché,” Sydney grinned. “The regional differences in people never cease to fascinate me.”

  The waiter came over and took their order.

  “So, tell me about yourself. Any prospects on the horizon?” Sydney asked, taking a sip of water after the waiter had left.

  “Prospects? You mean men in my life? No,” Sherri shook her head uncomfortably. “I’ve got all the contentment I need between work and this one here,” she said, smiling at Tina. “And how are you doing? Enjoying retirement?”

  “Yes, some days are slow, although I’ve changed that recently. I’m doing some part-time work here as a consultant to the City of St. Augustine.”

  “What kind of work, Uncle Sydney?”

  “Not too different from what I used to do: architectural design. City officials are constantly renovating one historic building after another. With millions of tourists a year, they’re quick to tackle restorations in order to preserve the city’s appeal. After all, it is the oldest continuous settlement in the United States, you know.”

  “Funny,” Sherri began, “many people up north aren’t familiar with the history of St. Augustine. They consider the pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock in 1620 to be the longest continuous settlement, even though St. Augustine preceded Plymouth Rock by 55 years. And even before that, it’s said Juan Ponce de León first reached the area in 1513 looking for the fabled Fountain of Youth.”

  “Well, you are well-versed in your U.S. history.”

  “She’s been reading a lot,” Tina said. “And I mean a lot!”

  Sherri laughed. “I guess I have.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the reason you’re here?” Sydney asked, his expression a bit more serious now.

  “Yes. I’m meeting with St. Augustine officials tomorrow. There is a growing dispute that Juan Ponce de León did not, in fact, land at St. Augustine in 1513 and instead, came ashore at Melbourne, Florida, 145 miles to the south. Melbourne has plans under way to financially leverage this perceived correction to the history books.”

  “I’m familiar with the debated landing site,” Sydney said, “but I was unaware Melbourne is making such an active push to claim relevance.”

  “By the beginning of next year, Melbourne will have two exhibits and at least one new hotel open to capitalize on Ponce de Leon’s name.”

  “That’s why the City of St. Augustine hired your firm,” Sydney nodded his understanding. “You’re going to combat Melbourne’s assertion?”

  Sherri sighed with a dim smile. “Well, I’m not sure if combat is the right word.”

  “In what direction will you advise the city to proceed?”

  “Unfortunately, Uncle Sydney, that part I can’t tell you. I was required to sign a nondisclosure agreement.” She smiled and stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom before our food comes. Tina, please stop chewing on ice,” she said as Tina tipped her glass and fished a piece into her mouth.

  Sydney laid a consoling hand on Tina’s. “Don’t let your mom fool you. When she was a child and came over to my house, one of her favorite things to do was go into my freezer and take a cube of ice from the ice tray to eat. Like mother, like daughter.”

  “Uncle Sydney, you’re not helping,” Sherri said with a playful scold as she turned and walked away.

  A short time later dinner arrived and the conversation continued. Sherri told Sydney how close she had come to taking her flying test on Friday. She left out the part about it being her second attempt. She also described how her week had ended on such a high note when, after losing one large client, she had gained another.

  As the evening drew on, Sherri sensed a mild degree of reservation from her uncle. He seemed reluctant to talk about himself. He had always been the boisterous type, just like her father; not a braggart, but not shy either. It struck her as odd. Maybe it was his age. Sherri recalled Sydney had celebrated his 60th birthday four years ago and had taken it pretty hard. Yet the man did not appear to be more than fifty. Her intuition told her something else was weighing on his mind. She considered asking him about it forthright but decided against it in Tina’s presence.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Monday, August 15, 1:11 a.m. – St. Augustine, Florida

  Curt lay in bed tossing and turning. After a short, late-afternoon nap, he had retired to bed at 10 p.m. Although he fell asleep almost immediately, he woke up thirty minutes ago. Now, his mind would not relax. He continued to assess the information Father En had given them. He had yet to make any sense of it, nor did he think he ever would.

  Still, something about the man stuck with him: something in his eyes. It made no sense that he would lure Curt all the way to Bolivia to fabricate such an outlandish claim.

  Curt replayed the events in his mind of the afternoon when he and Dr. Peklis encountered Subject X from the time they entered the gunpowder magazine until the moment the officer ended the man’s life. It was a jumble of activity, with shouts, gasps, and chattering in the courtyard when the mayhem had started. Curt distinctly remembered Subject X growling and grunting in the gunpowder magazine.

  Curt rolled out of bed and went to his kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table before his laptop and shook the mouse to bring the screen to life. He opened a web browser and went to YouTube. He typed in the necessary key words and quickly found the video shot by one of the news teams in attendance at the Castillo the day Subject X had emerged from the room. He had already watched it at least a hundred times, but he had an idea. He opened another program: an audio stabilizer and splicer. He should have thought of this before.

  He played the video from YouTube. From the point when Subject X reached the courtyard until his gruesome demise, Curt recorded the audio in the program. Then he closed the web browser and concentrated on the audio program.

  The program allowed him to use an algorithm to identify each separate noise, from stray sounds to voices. Then, one by one, he could isolate the audio clips and review them.

  It was amazing the amount of independent sources of sounds that were captured in those few seconds. Fortunately, the program could distinguish between random noises and words. Curt focused exclusively on the voice patterns.

  He jacked in his headset and began listening to them one at a time.

  He heard everything from a man cursing, to a woman screaming, to another man gasping for air. Curt went through 26 clicks before he got to one that caught his attention. In it, he heard a male voice. The man was breathing hard, and, in between breaths he shouted, “Mur iers! Mur iers!” There were clear gaps between each syllable.

  Curt checked the clip of the gunshot. In chronological sequence, the first shot was fired immediately after the man cried “Mur iers!” the second time.

  Curt typed in “Mur iers” in a search engine, but it failed to return anything. He wrote the two sets of letters on a notepad and stared at it for a long minute.

  A thought occurred to him: maybe it was not two separate words after all.

  ****

  Professor Marvin Sellon was rudely pulled from his slumber by an annoying sound. As he lifted from the fog, he realized it was the phone. He reached for the nightstand, smacked his fingers against it, and found the table lamp. He flicked it on and grabbed the phone off the receiver. Through bleary eyes, the clock on the nightstand confirmed the early morning time.

  He answered, still
half asleep. His fingers ached.

  “Hello?” he said, as he propped up in bed. A phone call at 2:26 in the morning was never a good thing.

  “Marvin, it’s Curt. I need you to pull some strings.”

  “I’m going to pull a noose around your neck. Do you realize what time it is, Curt?” Marvin rubbed his eyes.

  “It’s important, Marvin. Here’s what I need…”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Monday, August 15, 7:11 a.m. DST (2:11 a.m. EST) – Isla de la Palma, Canary Islands

  Dr. Lila Falls and her two graduate assistants, Trudy Gaines and Walker Denoy, had flown into Manchester, England, on Friday and had spent the night. The following afternoon, they chartered a flight to the island, arriving at the Santa Cruz de la Palma Airport Saturday at dusk.

  The weather on Sunday had been abysmal. A driving rain made scaling the mountainside too dangerous given the equipment they had to haul. With nothing to occupy her time, Lila had spent most of the day watching television in her hotel room.

  On Monday, the rain had ceased, and although a moderate wind had remained, at least the footing was better.

  Lila, Trudy, and Walker made their way to the narrow plateau. Lila was relieved to see the small boulder still in place that she and Curt had used to conceal the opening. It had been her worst nightmare to think someone else had found their site while they were away.

  Rolling the rock away, they pushed their backpacks through the opening. They shoved the numerous lengthy struts of aluminum scaffolding inside, and crawled on their bellies into the tunnel. With her flashlight cutting through the blackness, Lila led them to the end, where they crossed the pile of stone rubble and entered the massive vaulted chamber. Trudy and Walker stared in amazement around the room and at the beautiful, ornate images that reached high on the walls.

  Lila also smiled. The discovery was even more unreal than she recalled. She was forced to take a calming breath. Gathering her wits, Lila instructed the assistants to set up a series of lanterns and assemble the scaffolding against the far wall.

  Even though Trudy and Walker had both signed nondisclosure agreements, with the potential enormity of the discovery, Lila had chosen not to tell them the details of what she and Curt had found. All they knew was the manmade cave contained prehistoric artwork on the walls.

  “My God,” Trudy began, “look at those concentric steps leading to the circular depression in the floor. It resembles Jewish wading pools found in Jerusalem dating back to, and preceding, Jesus’ time.” It was the exact unspoken conclusion Lila had made when she and Curt had first entered the sprawling enclosure. She was not about to acknowledge her corroboration with the graduate student for fear of leaking too much information.

  Lila went to the floor depression, and for the first time, she noticed a thin, lengthy crack which ran from one side to the other. Using her flashlight to gaze through, she saw space beneath. If there had once been water here, it had drained out.

  Walker spotted the Aramaic text of Ham’s signature as they anchored the scaffolding poles. “I don’t recognize the writing. Have you deciphered it, Dr. Falls?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Lila felt a twinge of regret telling the lie.

  Walker stared at the wall for another few seconds. Then he turned, and continued to build the webbing against the wall.

  The lightweight aluminum material was sturdy but could only support limited weight. Lila, a petite 5’2”, would be the only one to scale it.

  In a short time, the scaffolding was assembled, and Lila lithely climbed to the top, reaching a height of twelve feet, well above the lowest image on the wall. A former college swimmer, she remained in prime condition and easily made the climb.

  Dr. Lila Falls stood upon the scaffolding examining the images. Although she would never have admitted it to Curt, she was disappointed he was not here to see this with her. He was, at best, a rogue archaeologist, but he had a certain elan, and he kept things interesting. Alone this morning in her hotel room, she laughed thinking back to his exquisite expression of mortification when the stone curtain had nearly collapsed on top of him. Classic Curtis. If not for his sophomoric levity, the man might have almost been tolerable, and, damn it all, his enthusiasm for the hunt of antiquity was nauseatingly contagious at times, although Lila would never have given him the satisfaction of knowing she felt that way. True, she no longer loved the man, and she often found him completely insufferable, but he was still fun to be around.

  Up close now, she stared at the pictures in awe. They were brilliant; ablaze in radiant colors as if the pigments were still drying. She saw images of creatures; some recognizable, others she had never seen before, and all were so exact, so precise.

  The implications were mindboggling if she could prove the pictures had been painted by an offspring of Noah.

  Steadying herself, she took in each individual image. The pictures reached to the ceiling and around the circumference of the room and represented literally thousands of creatures. It was a massive mosaic, unlike anything ever discovered. Lila spotted something along the wall to her left. It was too distant to make out, but it appeared to be more Aramaic writing. Her adrenaline surged, and she quickly descended, nearly losing her footing on the aluminum framework as she hurried down.

  “Help me move the scaffolding over. There’s more writing on the wall to this side.” Lila pointed, and the two assistants helped lift the assembly and delicately move it the dozen feet to the left where it was re-braced against the wall. She rushed up the side of the scaffolding, nearly falling again at the top before stabilizing on the platform.

  Drawing a flashlight near, she could barely contain her excitement. She blinked, and the text materialized. This was not a single word like what they had found at the base of the wall. This was a series of sentences forming paragraphs. Unfortunately, a large section of the writing was obscured by a veil of lichen that had grown across the wall, but what she could make out made her heart race.

  The text told the story of Noah’s Ark and the Great Flood. Just like the Codex Sinaiticus, it contained more information than was published in the Old Testament account; a story more extensive than modern mankind had ever heard.

  Lila read the visible writing a second time, attempting to digest the meaning. Without access to the text hidden behind the lichen, the story was too disjointed to make sense.

  ****

  At the bottom of the rise, a bearded man with dark, stringy hair loosely covered with a cap was perched behind a large outcropping of rock. He peered upward through high-powered binoculars. A stern wind pushed past as he patiently kept vigil on the small plateau above. Nearby, a clutch of indigenous trees carried the refreshing scent of pine.

  It had been some time since the three people had gone inside the cave. All he could do now was to wait.

  He lowered the binoculars, drawing a deep breath of crisp air. From where he stood on the Caldera de Taburiente, he turned his attention outward. As advertised, the 25-mile-long Isla de la Palma was shaped like a Stone-Age pickaxe, turned on its axis with the extended tip pointing to five o’clock. At the thick northwest end where he stood, the island lifted to a peak a mile and a half above sea level, which allowed him to gaze with admiration upon the rich coating of Canary Island Pines that lined the hilltops, valleys, and gorges to the southeast. In the distance, the massive cinder cones of the Cumbre Vieja volcano dotted the ridge like lunar craters. Black and gray basaltic lava flows were layered beneath the green vegetation on the hills. Beyond, the shimmering blue Atlantic Ocean sparkled in the early morning sun, an endless wilderness of water.

  Below, at the base of the Caldera, was the sprawling city of Los Llanos de Aridane, which held nearly one-quarter of the island’s 90,000 people. It was punctuated by red, white, and green rooftops interspersed with a network of snaking roads. Beyond, rural villages lay scattered across the hilly terrain. To the left, a
long the coast, the Tazacorte Harbor was teeming with life as boats of every color and size were moored or being navigated into and out of the basin. Black sand beaches loomed in the distance along the lengthy shoreline. Not far away, one of the numerous banana plantations was visible, with rows of the squat leafy trees perched like a platoon of green soldiers standing in rank.

  He had to admit, this was a beautiful island. It was a mystery to him how he could have missed it in all his travels.

  Another strong gust of wind raked the mountainside. He glanced down at his backpack wedged into a nearby crevice nearly out of sight. He looked forward to the time when he could use it and end this waiting. He was not a patient man.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Monday, August 15, 6:08 a.m. – Jacksonville, Florida

  Scott rolled out of bed, threw on his robe, and awkwardly traversed down the stairs. He somehow managed to avoid the family cat, Austin, who took great pleasure in darting between his feet with each downward step.

  He entered the kitchen and fed Austin, then made a cup of coffee and proceeded into the den, settling on the couch. After digging the remote from between the cushions, he turned on the television.

  The morning meteorologist reviewed the current weather patterns across the United States then focused on Florida and two large white swirls on the map to the southeast of the state in the Atlantic Ocean: Hurricane Elena and Hurricane Fernando. Elena was a Category 1 storm with winds at 78 miles an hour. Currently, it was following a more westerly track and was expected to pass below the Florida Keys and either head toward Mexico or curve up into the Gulf.

  Good, Scott thought. Stay away from the east coast.