Evil in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 2)

by Gary Williams

  “Why?”

  Sawyer paused, taking a sip of water. “Mr. Marks, I called you to come over because I’m an old man. My life is nearly at its end. It really won’t matter to me if I die in my sleep this evening. I have nothing to gain, nothing to live for. I’m simply riding out my days. Ed’s warning is disconcerting in that I’m worried about the safety of others.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I prefer you read for yourself, Mr. Marks. Coming from me, you’re liable to think that I just made the whole thing up as some whack imagination of an old man. I want you to know the truth firsthand. I don’t have any family or friends to pass this on to. If this may benefit others, which I believe it can, you’re as good as anyone to have it.”

  Scott was still confused when Sawyer rose from the table and motioned for Scott to follow. The two men walked into the dining room where Sawyer knelt in front of a large metal chest and flipped open the lid. Inside were stacks of notepads.

  “In case you think I might have written the journal myself as some kind of demented joke, I wanted you to see the entire collection.”

  Scott picked up a few journals and delicately thumbed through them. The handwriting was definitely feminine. The binding, cover, and pages of each notebook were chalky and aged. There were no inscriptions on the outside, but the first page of each notebook contained the date. Content they were authentic, Scott placed them back in the chest. Sawyer reached over to a small coffee table and lifted a light brown covered notebook, which had a yellow post-it note sticking out from the top, and handed it to Scott.

  “This one covers the period from March 28 through September 4, 1925. While mother didn’t write every day, on those days that she did, she could be quite long-winded. Starting on the page that I’ve marked with the yellow sticky, you’ll find her retelling of Ed’s story. Then you’ll understand why the water turned crimson in 1925, and possibly, why it did so again yesterday.” He handed the notebook to Scott.

  Scott stared at it then looked up. He couldn’t resist asking, “Why are you so concerned about the warning that a drifter gave you when you were seven years old?”

  Sawyer’s lips turned up in a partial smile. “I recently became curious as to what became of Ed and decided to check public records. Mr. Marks, I’m not very good with a PC, but with determination I went to the Green Cove Springs public library and was able to successfully find imaged handwritten records of the Ormond Brothers Sawmill in business between 1889 and 1938; everything from invoices, receipts, and, most importantly for my purposes, labor and employment records. In 1925, the Ormond Brothers had two Edwards on the payroll. The first was a long-time employee who had started in 1902 and left in 1936, but the second was a man who had begun working in February of 1925 and received his last check on August 6 of the same year. I knew this was the man I was looking for; the man who had briefly lived with Mother and me. His full name was Ed Leedskalnin.”

  Scott’s eyes lit up as he recognized the name.

  “I see by your expression you know of Ed Leedskalnin,” Sawyer said.

  “Yes, of course,” Scott managed to stutter. Now he had a thousand questions that he wanted to ask the old man. “Did Ed ever say anything about—”

  “I know what you’re going to ask, and, no. I remember most everything Ed told me, although it was so long ago. I don’t recall him ever saying anything about plans for the structure in Homestead. It’s something that I would have remembered.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Carr Nash and Jed Rassle checked into the Magnolia Bed & Breakfast on Juniper Street, three blocks west of Spring Park and one block from the river. The proprietor, a mild-mannered elderly woman, gave them a sideways look as the two men signed for a single room. Nash, a fit, bald man in his early fifties, led the way down the hallway squeezing the key in his left hand, preoccupied with his thoughts. Rassle, a gnarly mountain of a man with dark skin and a crew cut, followed Nash as usual, carrying four bags of luggage. The one bag containing the stone tablet weighed more than the other three bags combined.

  Once in the room, Jed busied himself unpacking. Carr found a comfortable armchair and flipped open the guest information book he had retrieved from the top of the dresser.

  “I wonder if there’s a decent Italian restaurant in this shitty little town,” Nash mused to himself.

  Rassle let out a false chuckle, the kind an employee would offer to his boss’ lame jokes. Even though they weren’t in business together, Jed was respectful of the pecking order. Nash was the leader, and as such, he would honor the man with the respect he deserved.

  After a few minutes, Nash threw the guestbook on the floor and went into the bathroom, closing the door. Rassle walked over, picked up the guestbook, and carefully placed it on the dresser precisely in the spot where it had been. He continued unpacking what was necessary and was finished by the time Nash flushed and walked out.

  “What time did you tell him to be here?” Nash asked.

  Rassle looked at his watch. “He should arrive any time now.”

  “You know how long we’ve been looking for this? Feels like forever.”

  Rassle knew exactly how long. It had only been four months; ever since they took the tablet from the Jacksons in Nebraska on that cold day and realized it corresponded to the scroll text.

  “Who would have imagined it would lead us to our prize?”

  Rassle didn’t answer. He had been with Carr Nash long enough to know that most of the man’s questions were rhetorical. A response would only draw the man’s ire.

  “For the spring to bleed, it has to be close. It’s here, somewhere nearby, waiting for us to claim it. I never could have imagined it would be right here in the United States.”

  Rassle saw that wild look flare up on Nash’s face. It was times like this that the man’s bizarre hazel eyes scared him. He knew the path they were taking was required. It was their destiny, and if it took a man who appeared off-balance to lead them, so be it. Fate couldn’t be reasoned with; it could only be followed.

  There was a knock at the door. Nash sat down on the edge of the bed and arrogantly motioned for Rassle to answer.

  “Mr. Nash?” the man in the blue jeans, collared shirt, and baseball cap asked at the door.

  Without speaking, Jed pointed a beefy finger toward Nash and allowed the man in.

  “Mr. Nash, I’m Jerry Bennett. I’m with the Lankerton Survey Group in Jacksonville. We spoke on the phone last night.” Moving before Nash, he held up a large envelope. “I was able to retrieve the field maps of the freshwater aquifers that have been charted in a 25-mile radius of the Green Cove Springs area as you requested. I’ve noted the springs leading into the St. Johns River within the similar designated quadrant. Also, here’s the severe weather data for this area for July 7th of last year. I hope—”

  Staring down at the floor, never making eye contact with Jerry Bennett, Nash reached up and blindly snatched the large envelope the man offered.

  “Pay the man,” Nash said.

  Surprised, Jerry Bennett turned to look at Rassle, who was standing by the wide open door. As Rassle reached into his coat pocket, Jerry spun back toward Nash, who had already pulled the contents from the envelope.

  “Mr. Nash, I hope you appreciate that the information I got for you was done so against protocol. Please don’t share this data or say where you obtained it. I could lose my job or even be put in jail. I’ve got a family—”

  “Get the hell out,” Nash suddenly screamed at the man. He never looked up, but his breathing became ragged.

  Shaken, Jerry Bennett stumbled into Rassle, who quickly righted the man by grabbing his shoulders, wheeling him around, and shoving a small envelope into his hand. Then he shoved Bennett through the door and closed it quickly behind him.

  Rassle walked over to the corner by the drapes and sat on the hardwood floor.

&n
bsp; “Oh, young man,” Nash called to Rassle whimsically.

  Rassle despised it when Nash called him like that in that demeaning voice.

  Nash looked up at Rassle. “Please follow Mr. Bennett and kill him. We don’t want to chance anyone else knowing what we’re up to. We’ve already had one breach. I’ll be damned if anything is going to stop us now. Oh, and just to be clear, be discreet this time with the body. No heads stuck on bedposts, please.” Nash smiled. It seemed strangely genuine.

  Rassle ambled to his feet and made for the door. That sickeningly excited feeling flowed through his veins; the adrenaline rush he got any time he was allowed to take a life.

  At least this was a task Rassle would enjoy, even if he couldn’t have fun with the body.

  CHAPTER 14

  Last August, the Fish had been thrown into the Atlantic Ocean at St. Augustine during Hurricane Fernando. Since then, it had slowly made its way north toward Jacksonville, hugging the shoreline. The coastline was a strange environment to the creature; open, putrid water, the likes of which it had never experienced. With its strength and insatiable desire to feed depleted, it was barely strong enough to make headway. It was an agonizing and exhausting struggle to swim, and it was only able to do so in small spurts before its energy was drained and it was forced to rest.

  Aquatic life high on the food chain, such as barracudas and the vast assortment of sharks—bulls, tigers, bluetips, hammerheads—which occupied the southern waters, avoided the Fish, as did water fowl that foraged the shallows. They all kept their distance from the small, strange-looking creature with the protruding teeth, glossy skin, and forked tail. Their fear was instinctual. Even lacking the voracity that salt water effectively staunched, the Fish was viewed as a menacing and terrifying predator. All of nature regarded the haggard, sluggish Fish as a force still to be reckoned with. This worked to the creature’s advantage as it moved slowly, but unencumbered, along the coast.

  Passing Vilano Beach, Ponte Vedra Beach, and finally reaching Jacksonville had taken nearly six months. Without the stamina or the ability to hunt aggressively, the Fish had fed as any other bottom feeder did: combing the ocean floor for scraps of fish flesh and small crabs. Yet it continued on its grueling journey, drawn by a peculiar force.

  In late March, the creature had reached the south jetties: the extended line of boulders that stretched into the Atlantic from the Mayport Naval Base and bordered the mouth of the St. Johns River. The Fish looped around the end, entered the river, and proceeded upstream past the naval base and the historic Mayport Fishing Village. It plodded along, making headway in small increments. Occasionally it stopped for days to eat and regain some strength before continuing.

  Over time, the Fish continued upriver, moving past the Fort Caroline National Monument and Bartram Island before stopping for an extended respite. There, it rested for three weeks on the riverbed at the foot of the two-mile long, 175-foot high Napolean Bonaparte Bridge.

  When it resumed its journey, moving farther and farther up the St. Johns River, the water became more familiar to the creature. While the salinity remained strong, something about the flow and ancient texture of the currents sparked the Fish’s memory, and it helped fuel the creature’s progress.

  Now, nine months after it had been banished to the sea, it reached the eight-lane Buckman Bridge at the southern end of Jacksonville, 27 miles inside the river. It was gaining strength, moving faster as the salinity weakened. It forged ahead into brackish water with renewed determination and aggression.

  The creature could feel its power returning. Its carnal instinct to eat would soon follow.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fawn took a seat in a booth at Jimmy’s Wings, a small restaurant next to Spring Park. It was just after six o’clock on Saturday evening, but the crowd was sparse. The waitress came by and Fawn ordered a salad.

  She looked at the folder with the single sheet of Lindsey McSweet’s notes tucked inside. Although she had read the text a dozen times, she wanted to study it yet again. She flipped the folder open. The heading at the top of the first page contained two fragmented sentences:

  The Cult of End – Goal: destroy Tol

  The Scroll of Edict

  Fawn had conducted extensive research on the terms “Cult of the End,” “Tol,” and “The Scroll of Edict” and turned up nothing.

  She continued reading, moving on to the first of two paragraphs. Each was formatted like verses from a song or stanzas from a poem:

  Mankind’s curiosity will lead to the first God Tool

  Two strong hurricanes will see it placed in the Ocean

  Its voracity is fueled by fresh water

  It will seek the others

  As with the other terms, Fawn had researched “God Tool.” The term had turned up, but generally in reference to video games or used generically within the context of Biblical scriptures. The phrase “two strong hurricanes” had stuck out to her. Hurricanes are found in the tropical zones and mostly affect the islands in the Caribbean Sea and the shores of the eastern United States, whereas cyclones are contained to the South Pacific Ocean and Indian Ocean. Florida had been simultaneously struck by two massive hurricanes last year that had oddly dissipated just after reaching the western and eastern sides of the state, respectively. This bizarre weather occurrence still had meteorologists shaking their heads. Fawn wondered if it was a coincidence that Lindsey’s notes could be referring to what had occurred last August in Florida.

  She continued reading the second, and final, stanza:

  Nature will free the second God Tool

  Fresh water turning red signifies its release

  The jeweled eyes see all in the sun’s light

  When in balance, the creature is the way

  Fresh water turning red signifies its release.

  Until yesterday, these had only been scribbled words on a page to Fawn. Now they suggested the possibility of something more. The correlation between what had happened with the spring turning red and the text was clear, but was it just another coincidence?

  Her salad arrived, and she placed the paper back in the folder and closed it.

  More patrons came into the restaurant and took seats at the bar. Green Cove Springs was not a tourist draw, so she suspected most of these were locals.

  A well-built bald man entered, followed by a larger man with close cropped hair. Fawn noticed them because of the reaction of the others in the restaurant, who seemed to regard them with suspicion. Even the hostess seemed tentative about escorting them to a table. They were seated across from Fawn.

  Fawn focused on her meal. She pushed her long, blonde-streaked, brown hair over one ear and ate her salad. Yet with her head down, she could feel eyes upon her. She looked up toward the front door and was certain she saw the bald man staring at her out of the corner of her eye. He quickly broke his gaze and resumed talking to his large friend across the table.

  Fawn’s dark skin, a result of her Puerto Rican heritage, and shapely figure frequently attracted the attention of males. Her instincts told her that was not the case this time. When she felt the man’s stare, if was not seeded by male desire; it was something different, as if he was trying to figure her out.

  She shook it off with a thought: I am being paranoid.

  Fawn took a moment to draw the folder discreetly across the table to her side and pull it down into the seat out of anyone else’s view. Even if she was imagining the attention, it didn’t hurt to be cautious.

  She again looked at the door, using her peripheral vision to keep watch on the two men. This time, they remained engaged in a conversation, and neither looked her way. Still, something about them kept Fawn on alert.

  To her side, out of view, she opened the folder on the seat. She casually glanced down and reread the sentence about the fresh water turning red, signaling ‘its’ release. She had no idea what “God Tool
” referred to, but she had a foreboding feeling she soon would.

  The third line: “The jeweled eyes see all in the sun’s light” sounded like some mystic oriental message taken out of context. The last line: “When in balance, the creature is the way” was practically comical. The way to what? And how does a creature become unbalanced? And what was the significance of the text first speaking of a “God Tool” then focusing attention on a “creature?”

  As silly as the notion was, this sentence caused her to shudder. To what creature could it possibly be referring? What was Lindsey trying to say?

  Fawn casually closed the folder. When she looked up, she was startled to see both men across the way staring at her. She did her best to remain calm and pretended not to notice. She hailed the waitress for the check, paid, and quickly left, tucking the folder into her purse as far down as it would go then keeping it to her side away from the men at the table.

  She felt relieved as she left the restaurant. Once in her car, she looked to make sure no one was following her before driving away.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was after 6:33 p.m. when Curt navigated Taylor Barton’s boat back to the dock at the river home. Twenty minutes later, he sat at the kitchen counter with Scott. Kay was preparing dinner. Cody was in a back bedroom playing a video game.

  Even with all the sunblock, Curt had a mild sunburn from all the hours on the water. “This has been one frustrating day,” he said, rubbing aloe on his cheeks. His skin ached with each touch.