“Did Cody see the remains in the stream?”
“No, he and Kay stayed on the pier.”
“That’s good. He might have had nightmares.”
“Yeah, you mean like I had last night, and every night since our run-in with the Fish?” Scott asked sarcastically.
“Look on the bright side: you’ve just started two weeks of vacation, and you and your family are getting to spend it free in your boss’ riverfront home while he’s in Europe. Not to mention, you have full access to this boat, including fishing rods and tackle. By the way, speaking of Cody, how’s he doing after his hospitalization in March?”
“He’s perfectly fine. It was one of those freak medical conditions. Doctors said it was so rare, it will make the textbooks.”
“You know, Sherri’s daughter, Tina, went through something like that once.”
“Maybe that’s why those two kids get along so well now,” Scott said. “They’ve become best buddies. Speaking of Sherri, have you heard from her lately? What’s going on with you two?”
Curt seemed to wither a bit. “She just returned from an assignment downstate in Miami. The PR firm she works for may pay well, but she’s always traveling.”
“Does Tina go with her?”
“She did this last time. School is out for the summer. Since I moved out three months ago, she’s hired a nanny to watch Tina and take her back and forth to school when she’s out of town.”
“Explain to me again why you moved out?”
“I don’t know. The honeymoon just wore off, I guess. Things got dull. We fell into a routine, and you know me. I’m not a routine kind of guy.”
“Honeymoon? But you’re not married.”
“You know what I mean,” Curt said. “My income has been less than stellar lately, and I felt like I was leeching off her.”
“It’s called love, not leeching.”
“I just thought if I moved out, had my own place, maybe the spark would return.”
“You know, I can’t help but point out the irony in your use of the phrase ‘maybe the spark would return,’ when your last house burned to the ground with you nearly in it, and, if I recall, a certain redhead named Sherri Falco helped pull you from your burning bedroom.”
Curt chuckled. “I guess it was a poor choice of words.” Then his mood became somber. “Last month I suggested we start seeing other people.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I was trying to be the nice guy. Sherri needs a serious relationship. I’m not the committing type.”
“Dude, you’re a mess.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Has she gone out with anyone?”
“Couple of dates, I think.”
“Have you?”
“Um, no.”
“Well, now that we’ve determined your love life is a disaster, how’s your work life?”
Curt exhaled. “Well, once I lost my archaeological contract with the City of St. Augustine, primarily because everybody involved with hiring me is gone, I’ve been free lancing.”
“You’re still unemployed.”
“That’s another way to say it, yes. Coincidentally, my last job was a dive just the other side of this bridge about 200 yards from shore.” Curt pointed to the northeast. “I’m sure you know that Green Cove Springs is where the U.S. Atlantic Fleet was mothballed after World War II, but what few people ever knew is that one of the destroyer escorts, USS Bailor, went down in the vicinity of where this bridge now stands. It had run aground while being brought down the river for storage and was on its way to Palatka for repairs when it succumbed to its damage and sank. It was a bit of an embarrassment to the Navy, who covered up the sinking of the vessel. No one knew it was there until some World War II documents were discovered recently and revealed its location. I was part of a team hired by the U.S. Government to locate the vessel and assess its status.”
“Which is?”
“Sunk in the mud and corroding. Even though the salinity of the water is minimal compared to downriver where the St. Johns meets the Atlantic Ocean, it’s still salty enough to have inflicted devastating corrosion on the hull. The government was not so much concerned with reclamation of the vessel as ensuring it was not causing any environmental issues to the river.”
“After nearly 75 years?”
“Consider it CYA. The documents that revealed the sunken ship’s location were about to be made public information pursuant to some governmental act. The Navy wanted to be able to say they had done their due diligence. Of course there was no environmental hazard; at least not now. Any oil in the vessel leaked out long ago.
“What was interesting,” Curt continued, “is that when we explored it, we found compartments that still held pockets of air.”
“Wow, that is interesting,” Scott said in a tone of playful sarcasm. “Back to my original question: Any work looming in your future?”
Just then, Curt reared back his rod and hooked into something. Whatever it was, it was strong, and he struggled to reel it in. “Based on my proficiency at fishing, I’d say I could become a professional angler,” Curt said as he fought with whatever he had hooked. Momentarily, Curt heaved the rod tip higher, and the surface broke with a commotion. The two men stared at the flat body and wiry tail of the creature at the end of his line. It fluttered across the surface as if it were going to take flight, knifing back and forth.
“Nice stingray,” Scott chuckled. “Too bad no one eats them. You may want to check with your high school counselor for more career options.”
“That’s disappointing,” Curt lamented. He drew the creature closer to the boat and cut the line with his pocket knife. He took the next minute to rig his line with a new hook and sinker. Then he retrieved a whole shrimp from the Styrofoam ice chest and baited his hook under Scott’s scathing stare. He was just about to cast out when his phone chirped. Curt laid the rod down and pulled it from his pocket. He was surprised to see the name of the caller. He opted to answer on speaker, “Hola, Lila, you know it’s too late to come after me for alimony, right?”
Strangely, there was no answer. Instead they heard frantic rustling and then a repeating, slurpy, sucking sound.
“Lila, you there?”
No answer.
Curt shrugged. “I think she booty called me.”
“I think you mean ‘butt dialed’ you. Big difference.”
Suddenly the sound elevated. Now they could clearly hear someone panting and gasping for air.
“Lila, are you there?”
“Curt! My god, Curt!” the woman’s words were hysterical, and her voice trembled.
Scott leaned in closer to listen. He could tell it was Curt’s ex-wife, Dr. Lila Falls. Curt’s jovial expression had turned to sincere concern.
“Lila, where are you? What’s happening?” Curt asked.
More panting, more sloshing ensued. An abrasive clicking sound started low but grew quickly. “My assistant left me,” Lila’s breathing was so labored she could barely speak. “Oh god, Curt, it’s gaining on me.”
“Lila, what’s going on?” Curt’s voice betrayed his alarm.
Lila did not respond. The bizarre clicks were now blaring through the phone. There was a splash, a gurgle, and the clicks slowly faded. In a distant voice, they could barely hear Lila yelling. “I’m at hey….south….....springs!”
Scott and Curt locked eyes; desperation and helplessness evident on Curt’s face.
Then the call went dead.
CHAPTER 6
Samuel Tolen lay on a creeper in the garage underneath a royal blue 1969 Chevrolet Camaro SS tightening the oil pan drain plug with a socket wrench. It was the final step for a project that had started almost 30 years ago.
Tolen rolled the creeper into the open and stood. He returned the socket wrench to the tool box and stared
at the metallic blue muscle car. The restoration was complete, the engine filled with oil and ready to go. The interior was immaculate, the exterior returned to showroom quality. It now sported a rebuilt 375-horsepower engine, dual exhausts, and a four-speed stick. In Tolen’s eyes, the car was begging for a trial run.
This was a bittersweet moment for the CIA operative-turned-Smithsonian Institute field agent. He walked over to the cork board and retrieved the keys from a wire hanger. Again he turned and looked at the car, remembering all the hard work that had gone into it.
He recalled with perfect clarity the day his father bought it when Tolen had turned 15. Tolen had just earned his restricted driver’s license and was absolutely ecstatic when his father told him they were going to buy a car. Jaspar Tolen had taken his jubilant son on a 35-minute drive to a junkyard in the nearby town of Palatka. Appropriately enough, the car Jaspar pointed out to Samuel looked more junk than car. Still his father shelled out $150, and the scrap metal on wheels was Tolen’s.
It took a while for Tolen to come around to the idea of restoring the vehicle, but each weekend and many weeknights after school, the two men would work on it, buying original parts when they could find them, and patiently reassembling the Camaro. Tolen noticed very early in the restoration process that his father never worked on the car unless both of them could do it together. As they worked, they would discuss things: the political environment, the space program, wars, history, geography. It seemed like each time they tinkered on the car, Jaspar Tolen had a new topic of discussion. It was never something black and white; nothing analytical that had a perfect answer. Jaspar sought out debatable topics, forcing Samuel to choose a side then taking the counterpoint. Usually, the discussions were mentally draining, yet soon, Tolen began to relish these intellectual encounters.
After graduating high school, Tolen went off to school at Auburn University. He had saved enough money from part-time jobs to buy a Toyota Corolla, and it became his means of transportation at college. During the infrequent times he did come home to visit his father, rarely was any further work done on the Camaro. After college, Tolen achieved a double doctorate and the vehicle went untouched, kept under a cover in a virtual cocoon in Jaspar Tolen’s garage. Then, against Jaspar’s advice, Tolen had joined the CIA. Work became his life, and, because of the nature of what he did, he spent most of his time out of the country. It wasn’t until a year and a half ago that Tolen began to free up enough time to come home and resume work on the Camaro. His aging father, then in his 70s, yet still spry enough to turn a wrench or hammer out a fender, had been happy to return to the project.
It had taken Tolen a long time to understand why his father bought the car. It had been a way for a father and motherless teenage son to spend time together, to chat about issues, bond during a time when most teenagers rebelled against their parents. Jaspar’s goal was not to finish the car; his goal was to spend quality time with his only son and help mold the boy into a man of intellect.
Now, the remembrance of the past made Tolen melancholy. With a lengthy exhale, he returned the keys to the wire hanger. Starting the car would signal the completion; the end. He wasn’t ready for that moment.
Tolen went into the house, washed the grime from his hands, and poured a cup of coffee. Still wearing the drab olive gray jumpsuit stained with oil and other engine fluids accumulated over the years, he stepped into the backyard and made his way out onto the short dock. For June, the weather was as expected in Northeast Florida at 9:30 a.m. in the morning: warm.
Tolen stood on his dock watching the Saturday morning activity stir in the distance on the St. Johns River. He took a sip of coffee, admiring the scenery. The property, just north of Green Cove Springs, was set in the interior of a small cove and afforded both privacy and public viewing of passing boats in the main channel. It was a beautiful day as the sun rose on the horizon, yet he felt the same tinge of sadness he did every time he walked out on the dock alone.
It had been nine months since he had terminated his father’s life. After the car accident, his 73-year-old father had fallen into an unrecoverable coma. It had taken him some time to come to terms with the situation and present Jaspar’s living will to hospital administrators. Yesterday, on the anniversary of his mother’s death when Tolen was a child, and per his father’s wishes, he was to sprinkle Jaspar’s remains in the spring run at the Green Cove Springs Park. Tolen had not been surprised by his father’s request. As a lifelong resident of the small town, even the discrimination his father had experienced up until the 1960s as an African American in a small southern town had not diminished his enthusiasm for the people and the area. Jaspar had always loved visiting the park, watching the freshwater spring bubble up from the boil and flow through the public pool, meander down the spring run, and merge with the river. It was an endless procession; a process that seemed as old as time itself. It seemed fitting that Jaspar Tolen would ask that his ashes be part of it.
The odd occurrence at the spring yesterday had thwarted his plan to carry out his father’s wishes. Once Tolen had heard the commotion and seen the red water and the floating masses coming down the spring, he had borrowed a seine net from a teenager casting at the riverbank and assisted the local police in gathering up the remains. As a CIA operative, he had seen a disassembled body before, but nothing compared to the spectacle yesterday.
Now Tolen had a decision to make: should he return to the park and pour his father’s ashes into the spring a day late, or wait another year, until the anniversary came around again? His flight was scheduled to leave Jacksonville International Airport at 5:45 p.m. to return to the dinosaur dig outside Ogden, Utah. Obviously, he had ample time. Yet after what he had witnessed at the springs yesterday, it did not feel right, even though the spring water had cleared. As irrational as he knew it was, if Tolen was honest with himself, he had sensed evil at the park yesterday. Still, it had been his father’s final request. The burden of not carrying it out would weigh heavily on him.
As if unconsciously delaying the decision, Tolen reached into his pocket and removed a small key. It had been the only thing in Jaspar Tolen’s safe deposit box that he couldn’t account for. It was small and simple, yet it was tarnished, as if aged, but by no means was it an antique. It had been left in a sealed envelope with no identification or mention of purpose. He kept it with him always these days, hoping that at some point he’d find out its use. So far, it was a complete mystery.
Tolen’s cell phone rang. He read the display. It was Dr. Sheila Shaw with the Smithsonian.
“Good morning, Doctor,” Tolen answered.
“Tolen, are you still at your father’s house in Northeast Florida?”
“Yes, I’ll be on a late afternoon flight to return to my assignment in Utah. I appreciate the day of reprieve to take care of personal business, Dr. Shaw.”
She continued in a rush, “I need you to follow up on something. I received a text from Dr. Lila Falls, who’s working on a project down there. She was performing an exploratory dive in the St. Johns River near Ribault Bluff with a University of North Florida graduate student looking for remains of the 1600s French Fort la Caroline, but apparently she came across something else remarkable, yet unexpected. Her text, which came in at 6:46 this morning, simply said, ‘Made a spectacular discovery! Will be in touch soon. Looking for confirmation.’ I’ve been trying to reach her for awhile now and I’m not getting an answer.”
“Cell phone reception can be spotty on the river,” Tolen said.
“Nevertheless, I’m concerned about antiquities thefts, and I’m afraid the Smithsonian’s communication channel may have been compromised.”
As a CIA operative, Tolen was very familiar with surveillance techniques and technologies used by the U.S. and numerous other governments. Yet his new assignment with the Smithsonian was not typical CIA work, and this was the first time Tolen had heard Dr. Shaw express worry over such a communication
breech. It was surprising, although not completely unexpected. The secondary market for illegal antiquities activity had swelled over the last two decades, the crime estimated to account for $2 billion to $6 billion annually. The illicit sale of stolen or improperly obtained artifacts was the third most profitable black market industry behind only narcotics and weapons trafficking. For the first time, in 2011, Homeland Security had dismantled a cultural property network within the United States. Any edge to give hunters an advantage would be seen as extremely profitable. Tapping the communication lines of the Smithsonian’s director of artifact exploration was a natural target.
“I’m not familiar with Dr. Lila Falls. Does she live in the area?”
“No,” Dr. Shaw responded, “she’s in a rented SUV and boat and met up with the graduate student this morning at Lonnie Wurn Boat Ramp.”
Tolen knew of the launch downriver at Jacksonville.
Dr. Shaw continued, “Tolen, I’d like for you to follow up and ensure Dr. Shaw and her assistant are okay. I’ll send you a text with their physical descriptions. If you miss your flight to Utah this evening, so be it. I’ll advise the crew there you may be a day or two late.”
It appeared his father’s wish would have to be delayed. In a way, he was relieved the decision had been taken out of his hands. “Will do, Doctor.”
Tolen hung up and returned his smartphone to his pocket as a boat buzzed by in the channel. The river water sparkled as a mullet went airborne and landed with a splash. The clear sky had turned bluer, and the heat felt as if it were intensifying with each passing second. He started back to the house to change clothes then paused. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Tolen, you realize it’s Saturday morning, and I’m not working this weekend, right? Besides, you don’t actually work for the CIA...or do you? I get confused regarding your assignment.”
Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2) Page 4