Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

  Jack’s mouth often released words before the sentence was approved by his brain. Now he needed to deflect her venom. “I bet Jesus would have fished on a day like this. Who wouldn’t?”

  Tonya turned away and ignored him.

  Jack heaved the next bag of groceries and followed after his wife, comforted only by the fact he would have a chance to grab either side of those sashaying hips this evening and really make her see God.

  They carried the groceries into the air-conditioned sanctuary where the cooks worked in an adjoining hall. There was a table set up in the narthex where a mound of food was building from everyone who had donated. Jack noticed an old man sitting at the far end of a pew. A box sat beside him. He was holding an envelope in one hand while his other hand held something in the air that sparkled as sunlight lanced in through the stained-glass windows. The smell of herbs and grilled meat wafted to Jack’s nostrils, drawing his attention, causing his stomach to roar. Tonya had been so intent on getting under way this morning, she had not bothered to cook breakfast: another reason Jack was sulking.

  He was on his third trip lugging food inside, sweat accumulating on his pot belly and soaking the front of his white tee shirt, when Jack heard a scream. At once, several volunteers raced inside the sanctuary. Jack dropped the groceries and followed, realizing it could be Tonya. Frantic voices erupted as he charged inside.

  Tonya was at the back of the church standing in the middle aisle, facing away from him. He pushed through the people amassed in the narthex and quickly drew beside her.

  “Who screamed?” he asked. He shielded his eyes when he was momentarily blinded by a reflection of green light.

  Tonya silently pointed ahead, up the aisle, where one of the volunteers, Levy Norstrom’s wife, Sally, was by herself, braced against the pulpit, looking down with a horrific expression. Sally released a scream, drawing the back of her balled hand to her trembling lips as her knees visibly shook.

  “What the hell is wrong with her?” Jack asked.

  Tonya did not answer. She ran down the long aisle toward Sally. Jack raced after his wife as fast as his out-of-shape body would allow. Halfway up the aisle, he caught up to Tonya and restrained her from going any further.

  He had seen it.

  Ahead, pieces of floor tile slowly buckled upward and broke with clean, sharp snaps. The tile unzipped down the aisle, moving from Sally toward them, cutting a precise route along the center grout line.

  A flood of terror gripped Jack. “We gotta get out,” he yelled. “It’s an earthquake!”

  Jack spun Tonya around, but it was too late. At that instant, the floor beneath the couple suddenly gave way, and Jack felt himself falling into sweltering, unmerciful heat. He never had a chance to scream.

  CHAPTER 4

  Dawn broke on the St. Johns River a few minutes after 6 a.m. Saturday morning. Thirty-five minutes earlier, University of North Florida graduate student Kira Compton had met Dr. Lila Falls at the dock at Lonnie Wurn Boat Ramp in Jacksonville. Now, they lay anchored east of Ribault Bluff near the south bank. Even though it was the first time the two had met, the introductions had been kept to a minimum. It was obvious to Kira that Dr. Falls was all business. Kira’s participation in this morning’s activities was voluntarily, a result of her recent registration with the Smithsonian Institute database as a local student studying archaeology. She had been contacted last week for her assistance with a Smithsonian-sponsored dive, yet had received no further details other than where to meet Dr. Falls this morning.

  As the morning light interrupted the darkness, Dr. Falls donned her swim fins, mask, and tank, yet she still had not elaborated the purpose of the dive to Kira.

  Kira adjusted her UNF baseball cap, ensuring her ponytail tripped out the back unencumbered. Her curiosity was growing, but she didn’t want to overstep her boundaries. Instead, Kira bit her tongue.

  Dr. Falls must have read the student’s questioning mind. “Go ahead and ask,” she said with a faint smile as the boat rocked in the gentle wind.

  Kira scratched a phantom itch on her cheek. “Why are we here?”

  Dr. Falls checked the regulator gauge. “I assume you’re familiar with Fort Caroline National Memorial over there.” She pointed west up the shoreline where an earthen fort stood on the high bluff in the dim light, its three-sided dirt mounds topped with wooden palisades barely visible in the distance.

  “Sure,” Kira shook her head in affirmation, “I grew up in the Fort Caroline area. The fort was France’s first attempt to set up a permanent colony in North America. This area was originally scouted by Jean Ribault in 1562 as a refuge for the French Protestants known as Huguenots and then settled in 1564 by Rene de Goulaine de Laudonniere along with 200 soldiers and artisans. The small fort, called la Carolina, was taken by force in the fall of 1565 by the Spanish who had settled St. Augustine to the south. They purged the French colony and ended France’s attempt to colonize Northeast Florida.”

  “Purged is an interesting choice of words,” Dr. Falls remarked. “The Spanish massacred most of the inhabitants of Fort Caroline, but your summation is correct. Although the full-scale rendering of Fort Caroline was erected over there, the exact location of the original fort is unknown. No archaeological evidence of it has ever been found, but we know it was in this vicinity.”

  “Is that why we’re here? To look for evidence of Fort Caroline?”

  Dr. Falls nodded. “There’s a theory that when the jetties were constructed in the 1800s into the Atlantic Ocean at the mouth of the river, some five miles away, it altered the flow of the river, causing a shift in the channel to the south. Since then, there has been substantial erosion to the land. Many scholars have proposed that the land where the original fort stood was lost, dispersed into the riverbed.”

  “I’ve heard that theory,” Kira nodded, yet she was still confused. “Shouldn’t we be looking off Ribault Bluff?” She pointed back.

  “Only if you subscribe to the popular theory.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “It’s been a long held belief that high points of grounds were preferable when building a fort. Everyone knows that being above your enemy makes your position more defensible. Yet before Ribault founded Fort Caroline in Florida, he made a stop on Parris Island in present-day South Carolina where Charlesfort was established and occupied for one year. The remains of this settlement were only discovered in 1996 and give us a curious clue regarding why finding Fort Caroline may have eluded us so far. Where Charlesfort was constructed on low ground, the French had to pass a bluff to reach it, which means they elected not to build on higher ground. If you consider it, it makes sense for the form of artillery available at that time. Positioning cannons on a bluff meant that, while they could fire a longer distance, any enemy that came close on the river would require they aim their cannons downward at an angle.”

  Kira understood. “In which case, the cannon balls would fall out before they could be fired.”

  Dr. Falls nodded. “Exactly. Based on where Charlesfort was built, I believe, as do some other scholars, the French would have followed a similar model here, and since most of the land west of the Fort Caroline National Monument where the rendering sits on Ribault Bluff has already been developed…”

  “That leaves the land east.”

  “Or, in this case, the land east that has eroded into the river.”

  “Fort Caroline was primarily an earthen fort, and the wood that was used would have deteriorated underwater a long time ago. I also seem to recall that divers have searched this area before and came up empty.”

  “Ah, yes,” Dr. Falls said, standing and checking her dive gear one last time, “the last attempt was two and a half years ago. Recall, though, the storm that struck Northeast Florida last fall: Hurricane Fernando. These powerful storms have a way of redistributing riverbeds, churning up and uncovering things that have
long been hidden in the sand. The Smithsonian likes to conduct a series of exploratory dives of known historical areas after a hurricane passes over an area of water. It’s possible there are artifacts such as French pottery shards underwater.” She paused. “Your comment about any wood from the structure long ago eroding away is accurate, unless, of course, the wood has been protected by mud, similar to the Maple Leaf.”

  Kira was familiar with the Maple Leaf, a ship used by the Union during the Civil War to transport soldiers. In 1863, the ship hit a mine in the St. Johns River and sank seven feet into the riverbed off Mandarin Point where it remains today, meticulously preserved by the mud.

  Dr. Falls continued, “Also consider that, much farther south upriver, pelican and otter totems were discovered in 1978. They, too, had been protected from rot by the river mud, so it is conceivable that some of Fort Caroline’s material could have been preserved and is now within reach after the hurricane passed through last year.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Kira said. Then she followed up her own words, “Then again, most archaeology is.”

  “Well put,” Dr. Falls responded. Facing Kira, she balanced on the gunwale, adjusted her goggles on her face, and checked her wrist gauge. “This will be our starting point. We’ll methodically search six quadrants of the riverbed over the next three days. For this first dive, I’ll be down for no more than 10 minutes. As soon as I’m under, toss out the dive buoy. Any questions?”

  “I’m a certified diver,” Kira said, feeling a bit useless with the duties she was being asked to perform, which amounted to babysitting the boat. She had seen another dive tank and wet suit near the transom.

  “I’m aware of that,” Dr. Falls commented. “I’m also aware that you had an emergency appendectomy nine days ago.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. The doctor cleared me two days ago for physical activity,” Kira rebuffed.

  “Nevertheless, I’ll survey this area. It’s not one of the six hot spots, but I saw an anomaly on the sonar that’s worth checking out. Then we’ll move on to quadrant one. I’ll reconsider you for a dive tomorrow.”

  Aye aye, Captain, Kira thought to herself.

  With that, Dr. Falls checked to ensure the tank harness was secure, pushed the mouthpiece into her mouth, and slipped backward into the water. For a moment, Kira could see Dr. Falls just below the surface. Then bubbles rose, and she plunged out of sight. Kira tossed out the dive buoy and settled down onto the transom to wait.

  It was a beautiful summer morning, and daylight was gaining strength with each passing minute. The wind had died within the last few minutes, and the surface of the river had turned to glass. There was no other soul in sight on the water or on land. The smell of brine was strong here. Kira turned to the west where, upriver, the towering cable-stayed Napolean Bonapart Broward Bridge rose up like an iron monster hovering over the landscape.

  Her mind wandered and some time passed. Kira checked her watch to try and recall exactly when Dr. Falls had submerged. She was not sure. She chastised herself for not being more diligent. Now she started to monitor the minutes as she stood and searched for an air bubble trail. Unfortunately, a slight wind had once again kicked up, rippling the surface, making visual identification impossible.

  Two minutes passed, then two more, and five more.

  Surely, she’s been down 20 minutes by now. That was twice the time Dr. Falls had told her for the dive.

  Kira began pacing the boat deck, nervously considering her options. Several more minutes ticked by. Kira knew very little about Dr. Falls, but the woman didn’t strike her as someone who would violate her own time schedule.

  “Screw this,” Kira said grabbing the wet suit. She stripped down to her bathing suit and wiggled into the snug wet suit one piece at a time. Then she hoisted the tank and harnessed it onto her back, checking the gauges and taking a breath from the mouthpiece. One minute, and several adjustments later, she perched backward on the gunwale. By Kira’s estimate, it had now been more than 30 minutes since Dr. Lila Falls had submerged. She knew that, conservatively, the single air tank had about 45 minutes worth of dive air. If there was a problem—if Dr. Falls had somehow gotten trapped in the riverbed or tangled in a fishing net or was in some other peril—now was the time to get down there and free her while she still had air left.

  Kira started to rock back when she heard a disruption in the water behind her. Startled, she spun, falling hard from the gunwale onto the deck. She raised herself up to see Dr. Lila Falls reach the aft ladder, quickly scale it, and flop into the boat. The woman ripped her dive mask off, panting wildly; her eyes wide with excitement.

  “What is it? What happened?” Kira asked rising to her feet. Her left hand had landed hard on the deck and was stinging.

  Dr. Falls started to say something then went silent. Kira could tell that the woman wanted to speak but was censoring herself. Dr. Falls swallowed and mastered a level of control. She took a deep breath and exhaled then cocked her head with an expression of remorse. “I’m sorry, Ms. Compton. I’m under contract with the Smithsonian and can’t divulge any information.”

  Kira was livid and spoke before she knew what she was saying. “Can’t divulge any information? I had to get permission from all my professors to miss three days of classes. You’ve obviously found something, and you can’t share it with me? Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  Lila Falls did not acknowledge Kira’s rant. Instead, she turned away and faced upriver, staring out into the distance.

  “Dr. Falls, I’ll sign a confidentiality waiver. I am studying to be a field archaeologist and understand the ramification of releasing information to the public prematurely before a site has been excavated.” Kira lowered her voice, speaking with less excitement. Her outburst had been unprofessional, and she knew it. She was now trying to compensate with a rational line of reasoning.

  Dr. Falls moved to one of the seats, lifted it, and removed a map of the river. She studied it intently. It was obvious to Kira that Dr. Falls was preoccupied with her own thoughts and not listening.

  What could have a seasoned archaeologist this excited? What had she discovered? Did she actually find evidence of the 450-year-old French fort?

  Dr. Falls suddenly turned, folded the map, and returned it to the compartment under the seat. She sat, ripped off her swim fins and began removing her wet suit. She looked up at Kira sternly. “I’m going to violate protocol and tell you what I discovered in the riverbed. So help me God, if you tell anyone, I’ll come for you myself.” Her words were laced with equal parts authority and threat, so much so, that Kira swallowed a hard lump as she read the resolve in Dr. Lila Falls’ eyes. “First, though, get out of that tank and wetsuit, then pull anchor. We’ve got to go. I’ll explain on the way.”

  Kira felt a weird mix of confusion and excitement. Then an odd question struck her: Why are we leaving?

  CHAPTER 5

  Scott Marks watched Curt Lohan bait his hook with an entire shrimp and cast the rig out from their anchored boat.

  “You know we have a limited supply of bait, right?” Scott said. “You don’t have to use a whole shrimp when a piece of it will work.”

  Curt turned toward Scott with an incredulous look. “You do want me to catch a whole fish, don’t you? Then I have to use a whole shrimp.”

  As hard as he tried, Scott could not suppress a grin. “Your logic, while thoroughly twisted, is also borderline insane.” It had been a while since Scott had gotten a chance to spend time with his friend. He had looked forward to this morning when they could catch up.

  “Thank you,” Curt wound in the slack. “So, that must have been some bizarre sight at the Green Cove Springs city park yesterday.”

  “You have no idea. I can’t begin to imagine where the body came from. Or should I say, pieces of a body.”

  “Apparently, neither can the police.”

  “The only
reasonable explanation is that someone went into the spring boil—accidentally or not—got trapped so far down that they became wedged in the funneling rocks, and the body eventually disintegrated.”

  “If I recall,” Curt replied, “visibility in the clear water extends down 28 feet. You really think a body could become wedged in there without being seen?”

  “I said ‘reasonable explanation.’ I didn’t say I had the answer. The face I saw was hideous. Seeing the grisly remains drifting past me, it was as if the man had been eaten and then thrown up by the spring.” Scott exhaled slowly shaking his head.

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s what happened afterward that is just as troubling to me.”

  Curt stopped fishing and turned toward Scott.

  Scott continued. “As the commotion began to die down at the park, I saw a man wearing a robe near the spring boil reading a Bible. His face was cloaked by a hood. When I asked him if he knew what had just happened, he responded, ‘Yes, and so do you.’ Then he left.”

  “You just made that up,” Curt laughed.

  “I swear,” Scott said holding up his hand, palm outward, as if taking an oath. “I have to admit that he creeped me out.” Scott blew a lengthy exhale. “But here’s the topper: while I never saw his face, I would swear he sounded like Father N.”

  “The monk from Bolivia?” Curt’s surprise was evident.

  “Yeah, or whoever the hell he really is.”

  It was just after 8:50 in the morning, but already the sun was at full force. They sat anchored in the middle of the channel, a short distance from the mile-long Alvin G. Shands Bridge that connected the small community of Orangedale on the north bank, to Green Cove Springs on the south bank. Several other boats were anchored in the area, although Scott had not seen a single fish landed so far. Traffic traversed the two-lane flat section of bridge a dozen feet overhead. The bridge paralleled the water, eventually swelling into a lofty hump at the northern end before the span flattened back out as it reached the bank. To Scott, the structure looked like a giant inchworm, bowed up at the back half of its body.