Mark of the Devil

by William Kerr

  “My lips are sealed,” Gravely promised, immediately calling over his shoulder, “except for, Bartender, another martini.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The golf course stretched off to his right, its greens and fairways host to a twosome here, a foursome there, and mounds of storm-torn palm fronds waiting to be carted away. Eric Bruder, careful to keep the ice-blue BMW convertible at the speed limit, punched a memory button on the dash-mounted cellular phone. He heard a single ring, the click of a receiver being picked up, and a man’s voice saying, “Good afternoon, young Eric.”

  Bruder hated being called young Eric, especially by that doddering, impotent old fool. He was forty-two years old, goddamn it. He’d like to tell the man to stuff his money and his power, but instead he said, “Just left the dive shop. This might be it.”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Could be anywhere between Newfoundland and Argentina,” Bruder answered, keeping an eye on a police car that had eased in behind him. “But this is near where that tanker was sunk, the last one before the surrender.” Pulling into the golf club’s parking lot to allow the patrol car to pass, he lit a cigarette and continued, “Navy records say two destroyers pinged a submarine immediately following the tanker’s sinking and went after it with depth charges and hedgehogs, but there was nothing to indicate it was hit.”

  “Stay with it. We’ve waited too long to ignore even the slightest possibility. Anything my people should do?”

  “Survey the site with a magnetometer. I mentioned that to Park and from the way he reacted, I think they’ve already done it. I also told Park that he and Berkeley must stay clear of the site until I’ve reviewed their application.”

  “Very good. Do you think they will?”

  “Park might, but Berkeley? From what Dr. Mason tells me, he’s headstrong and prone to take matters in his own hands if he believes he’s right, regardless of what others think. Dr. Mason’s words.”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with NAARPA and Mr. Berkeley. The archeological side of our little conglomerate has experienced his interference in the past.”

  “While there are certain strings attached, namely Berkeley’s well-being as she phrased it, I’ve made a rather significant financial arrangement with Dr. Mason. She’ll look the other way in case this is what we think and hope it is, but she and Berkeley have a long history together. Perhaps too long. We might have to void that part of the agreement if he becomes an obstacle.”

  “Is Starla aware of this arrangement?”

  “Yes.”

  Bruder heard a faint click, as though someone had picked up a second phone and was listening, but he went on anyway. “Park says Berkeley’s in Washington today. Coming back to Jacksonville after an overnight stopover in Charleston, his home, later this afternoon. I have an idea he’s talking to people who might know something about what’s buried out here.”

  “Very possible. NAARPA’s largely subsidized by Congress, so the man has numerous contacts, both government and civilian.”

  A woman’s voice suddenly came on line. “Dear brother Eric,” the voice said, its tone sliding leisurely on its own sweet innocence, “I do hope you’ll take care of these people, whoever they are. There really must be nothing to get in our way if they’ve found what I hope it is.”

  “Ah, Starla,” Eric answered, a grin having spread across his face at the sound of her voice. “You know me. Be assured, I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

  Punching the end button on the cell phone, he sat for a moment. If their grandfather’s letter really meant what Starla thought it meant, he could begin counting down the days when their dependence on Starla’s husband would come to an end. If it hadn’t been for the prenuptial agreement Shoemaker had forced on Starla, they would have already told him to go to hell.

  “The old bastard,” Eric muttered. For Starla, if the letter proved correct, revenge for their family’s past humiliations would be important. For him, however, the idea of his own wealth, to do with as he pleased, and freedom from Henry Shoemaker’s oppressive dominance, were lure enough.

  He tossed his half-finished cigarette into a bed of flowers in front of the golf club’s entrance, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot.

  Placing the phone onto its cradle, Henry Shoemaker rose and turned toward the wide expanse of glass behind his desk. Insulated from weather and sounds, a panorama of wharves, cranes, and ships stretched into the distance along the south side of Blount Island, an asphalt and concrete bastion anchored firmly in the mud and sand of the St. Johns River. Though under the overall supervision of the Jacksonville Port Authority, many of the ships that lay alongside the acres of wharves, much of the equipment, and most of the unionized longshoremen were his. His ships, his equipment, and his people. The operative word being his. One could say the same for the Florida ports of Tampa, Miami, and Fort Lauderdale’s Port Everglades. And farther to the north—Brunswick and Savannah, Georgia, and on to Charleston and Wilmington in the Carolinas. Different corporations, different presidents and CEOs, but all under Shoemaker’s flagship umbrella, Alliance Industries, Ltd.

  Shoemaker was neither tall nor short. In fact, if it weren’t for the $2000 hand-tailored suits, $200 silk ties, and $5000 Rolex on his left wrist, Henry Shoemaker would easily have been the invisible man. Though in his late sixties, it would have taken a magnifying glass to find the slightest wrinkle or blemish from the top of his totally bald head to the tip of an almost formless chin. In fact, there was really nothing particularly memorable about his oval-shaped face. His lips were without curvature or fullness, more like two narrow lines stretched partway across the face. If not for the short, narrow rectangular blocks of black, close-cut bristles masquerading as eyebrows above colorless eyes and a nose reddened by a progressive case of rosacea, the face would have been as unremarkable as a slab of white plaster. Behind that face and lackluster eyes, however, was a mind that controlled an empire worth billions, and with those dollars, a bevy of politicians, each begging to know how high to jump and in which direction.

  As he surveyed this part of his empire, the soft strains of a Richard Strauss orchestral tone poem issued from speakers placed about the room. They were hidden from view behind potted plants, within lamp bases, or disguised as first editions set meticulously in bookshelves behind doors of exquisitely carved cedar latticework. As the music built toward a crescendo, Henry Shoemaker’s right hand moved baton-like to the rhythm, drawing forth the swell of violins and the impassioned cry of the brass section.

  Suddenly, he heard, “For God’s sake, Henry. Can’t you live one minute without that goddamn music blaring in your ears?”

  The spell broken, Shoemaker took a deep breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to hide his irritation before turning toward the woman standing impatiently in the open doorway. “Ah, yes, my dear. With you at my side, who needs music?” Bitch! he thought, as he reached for the control console built into the top of his desk. He punched one of several buttons, and the music stopped.

  If only she weren’t so beautiful, he would have cast her aside years ago. Always wanting more and more, but then again she had been useful. What money couldn’t buy, she had often secured for him when a congressman or senator found himself compromised by her attentions. Eighteen years younger than he, or was it twenty? No matter, she could have passed as his daughter, and had on several occasions. And then there was always the pleasure he derived from saying no to her incessant demands.

  “Listening in to brother Eric, were we?” Shoemaker asked.

  “At the end, yes. Did you learn anything?” she asked, stepping before a gilt-framed mirror and finger-combing golden strands of straight, shoulder-length hair into place. As always, she was careful to leave a touch of sensuous abandon to the way they fell. At the same time, she haphazardly parted the bangs that dropped to just above her eyebrows, adding a natural wind-kissed look to a face that, though still beautiful, would otherwise have been hard and unyielding. The compressio
n of her lips to ensure an even spread of pink-on-chestnut coloring along the contours of her mouth brought a coquettish smile to her face. The smile quickly evaporated when she turned toward her husband. “Did you hear me, Henry?”

  “Yes, Starla,” Shoemaker said with a sigh. “Eric thinks this might be it.”

  “God, I hope so,” Starla Shoemaker said as she moved to the desk, shedding the white wool opera coat and revealing a body sheathed in black silk and cashmere. Henry Shoemaker found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the flow of her skirt, cut just enough above the knee to show mesh stockings stretching downward into a pair of black, kidskin leather boots. “If so, I want it. It’s mine. You’d know nothing about it if it wasn’t for me—if it wasn’t for my family, especially my grandfather.”

  Turning from the voluptuousness of her body and watching the loading of container ships along the wharves, Shoemaker answered, “That may be, but you still refuse to tell me why it matters so much, especially to your family. Your father and your mother are both dead. Except for Eric, what’s left of your family, like mine, is still in Germany. What difference could it possibly make? I don’t understand. Isn’t all this enough?” He spread his hands in the direction of the wharves.

  She moved next to him, careful to avoid touching. The word father brought back the memory that had haunted her for the past 42 years. She’d been only ten years old…

  Her mother was eight months pregnant with the child who would soon be called Eric. Darkness had fallen, almost time for dinner, when ten-year-old Hedda heard her mother call, “Hedda. Where is your father? It is mealtime.” She saw her father enter the study, a newspaper in his hand. With his latest business a failure, like all the others since the war, his search for odd jobs just to feed the family was never ending. Whenever he closed himself away with the newspaper, she knew he was searching the Laborer’s Marketplace section for work. She also knew he no longer used his real name, in order to ward off the humiliation and scorn that many still held against the family. His face was always sad, no longer smiling. And with a new baby on the way, another mouth to feed…

  Always taught to knock before entering, Hedda knocked on the door to the tiny study. “Father? Supper.” She called louder. “Father?” Hearing no response, she turned the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains were drawn; the room illuminated by a single desk lamp. The study at first appeared empty until she looked up and saw her father, his body hanging by an electrical cord strung from a light fixture in the ceiling. She felt as though every muscle in her body had turned to stone until the scream rose from her throat. And she screamed and screamed and screamed.

  “Well, isn’t this enough?” Shoemaker again motioned toward the wharves and ships below.

  His voice was like an electric shock. It snatched her out of the past, back from her father’s study and her father’s death. Starla shook her head. “The ships, the companies, the money, they’re not mine, not ours, all yours. What’s buried out there, if it’s what I think, what I hope, what my grandfather wrote to my grandmother about before he…it’s mine. And with it, the kind of power not even you can imagine. That’s what matters.”

  “Power? Money and prestige for making a significant archaeological find is one thing, but power? I have all the power I need.” Shoemaker forced himself to move away. He wanted to touch her, to tear at her clothing, to feel her breasts crushed against his chest, to bite and suck at her nipples while he worked his fingers between her thighs, but then for him, that would be all. She would only laugh at his inability to carry through the promise of his fingers, the promise cancer had denied. She’d tell him to go away, that she could do as much without him. Goddamn her! His muted voice cried, and goddamn himself for allowing her to remain in his life.

  Taking a deep breath to calm the inner turmoil, Shoemaker went on. “A man named Berkeley has already forwarded paperwork to the Florida Division of Historical Resources, establishing a record of finding something unknown at a precise location. From what Eric says, I feel certain Berkeley has conferred with friends in Washington and may have provided them with the same information.”

  “Then stop him.”

  “Not as simple as that. I know what the man is capable of doing. Much to their chagrin and mine, our people at Antiquity Finders have dealt with him before. Anasazi excavations in Arizona and southern Utah. That was before I made you chief operating officer of the organization. Additionally, if he shared the information about what he found with others, that would establish the finding.”

  “I still don’t see the problem, Henry,” Starla said. “Eric can get the application, destroy it, and submit one in the name of Antiquity Finders, Incorporated. Date it several days earlier, if need be.” With one eyebrow raised, she spread her hands to show the simplicity of the solution. “As for those Berkeley has contacted, we find who and where they are and remove them.”

  “And Berkeley? What about Eric’s agreement with the Mason woman?” he asked. “He said you were aware of it.”

  “Once the good Dr. Mason is no longer needed…” Starla shrugged her shoulders.

  Shoemaker turned back to his wife. “You know what you’re asking me to do, don’t you?”

  “Without a doubt, my dear Henry,” she said, the last three words coated with sarcasm, “all you have to do is snap your fingers and…your man Striker, for instance. How many times has he taken care of your removal chores? Give him to me, and I’ll put his talents to use.”

  Starla picked up her coat and turned to leave the office, saying over her shoulder, “For your dear little wife, Henry. You do want to make me happy, don’t you?”

  Shoemaker stood looking out the window after the door closed. Finally he turned to his desk and buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Doreen, get me the man called Striker. He works out of our office in Charleston.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Charleston, South Carolina

  After arriving from Washington, Matt spent more time at the NAARPA office in the Federal Office Building than he’d planned. It was already early evening as he exited the taxi and watched it pull away from the curb. Matt stood for a moment, briefcase in hand, looking at the two-story Georgian with wraparound porches, Tuscan columns, balustraded railings, and the sign on the wrought iron gate that read Berkeley House. Behind him, across the street, lay White Point Gardens, part of Charleston’s famous Battery, and farther on, Charleston Harbor with Fort Sumter swimming on the distant horizon. Memories of so many things flashed before his minds-eye as if they had happened only yesterday.

  His stepfather, Holice Kirkland, and his dislike for this man who had inserted himself into the family after Matt’s father’s fatal accident; who ultimately brought a stench of disease and death to Berkeley House. Time had allowed Matt a gradual understanding of the bond that had grown between his mother and this dying old man. It had been like a second coming of age, but that had been over four years ago.

  Not only the metamorphosis of his feelings for Holice, but his soon-after marriage to Ashley and her acceptance of his family had brought a new beginning to his own relationship with his mother. And for that, he was thankful.

  Pushing through the gate and up the steps to the porch, he punched the button for the doorbell. Almost immediately, the door swung open. “Why, Mr. Berkeley, your momma and Miss Ashley are back in the Charleston Room waiting for you. Thought you’d never get here.”

  Stepping into the dimness of the foyer, he playfully put his arm around the shoulder of the woman in the nurse’s uniform who stood before him. “Good to see you, Emmy Lou. You taking good care of Momma?”

  Emmy Lou chuckled, breaking away and taking the briefcase from his hand. “Now, Mr. Berkeley, you know I am, best she’ll let me. You know how she is.”

  Matt laughed. “I know. Independent and ornery as hell, but that’s a good sign.”

  “Yes, sir. You go on back, and I’ll bring you your favorite. Dinner won’t be ready ‘til around seven. We got a new cook
who’s a little slow. She’s white, but she’s good.”

  Matt laughed. “If she can cook a good roast beef the way Momma likes it, we’ll forgive her for being white. But I could sure use that favorite. My flight from Washington was so rough, they couldn’t even serve peanuts, let alone anything to drink.”

  Moving as softly as he could through the hallway toward the back of the house, Matt heard his mother’s voice. “Come on in, dear. No need trying to sneak up on us.”

  Matt shook his head in wonder as he pushed open the door to what the family had long called the Charleston Room. Its wall-sized mural of the Charleston skyline dominated the room with antique whites, pastels, and brick reds melding perfectly with the city’s stonelike grays of centuries past. “Your hearing gets better the older you get. How are you, Momma?” he asked, bending to put his arms around her shoulders and kiss her cheek. Seventy-nine years old, she was still beautiful to him despite the wrinkles, now a little deeper and more pronounced. Her hair was white and beginning to thin, and a walking cane used to steady her movements rested beside her chair.

  “I’d do better if you’d spend more time in Charleston and not off gallivanting around doing this, that, and the other. And your poor wife…”

  Matt stood and wrapped his arm around Ashley’s waist. “My poor wife is probably so busy doing her detective thing and peeking through life’s little keyholes, she hasn’t even missed me, but…” he added to Ashley, “I sure have missed you, you gorgeous hunk of woman.” Even the short time he’d been away, he’d lain awake at night, envisioning her dark hair, its slightly boyish pixy cut, the same as it had been the first day they’d met. Her face, heart-shaped with a scrubbed, girl-next-door beauty that even makeup couldn’t hide, was the perfect match for a body more willowy than voluptuous. And to top it off, she possessed enough brainpower to match his any day of the week. In Matt’s eyes, Ashley was perfection in every dimension. Even Victoria’s Secret models couldn’t compete.