End in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 3)

by Gary Williams

  “What…what happened?” she mumbled, averting her eyes.

  Curt pulled up a chair beside her bed. “Fawn, are you…okay?”

  “What happened?” she asked again.

  “You were in a helicopter crash, Fawn,” Curt leaned in and spoke gently.

  “I know. I remember.” She swung her head to the side with a distant, horrid stare, as if she were replaying the tragic events in her mind. “Mike’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry, Fawn.”

  “We hadn’t been getting along, but I didn’t want the man dead.” She raised her head and her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “Of course you didn’t.” Curt didn’t know what else to say. He reached over and took her hand in his.

  “You haven’t answered my question. What happened? Where are the others?”

  Curt exhaled. “My girlfriend Sherri is in a coma one floor above. Scott’s wife Kay was killed, although her body hasn’t been recovered. Scott and his son Cody were consumed by the Serpent.”

  Fawn visibly recoiled. “Oh my God.”

  “Believe it or not, in Scott and Cody’s case, it may not have been a bad thing.” Curt explained about Father N and what he had told Curt about the Serpent, as well as Father N’s belief that the COTE’s intent for kidnapping Sherri’s daughter Tina was to lead them to a portal to access Eden. He wasn’t sure how much of what he said she was able to comprehend. The entire time, she averted her eyes and seemed to vacillate between digesting the information and contending with the pain of Mike’s death.

  “What happened to Agent Tolen?”

  “I have no idea. I haven’t heard or seen him since he left for the cult’s camp on the outskirts of Green Cove Springs.”

  “Who shot at us from the bridge when we were in the air? Who was that woman who brought down the helicopter and killed Mike?”

  “Fawn, I don’t know.”

  She turned toward Curt and hardened her focus. “When I find her, I’m going to kill her.”

  Curt had never seen such a combination of rage and distress in the eyes of another human.

  “One other thing,” she continued, her voice hesitant.

  Curt waited for her to finish.

  “I’m pregnant with Mike’s child.”

  Curt had no response, but was struck by the coincidence that both Fawn and Sherri were with child.

  A nurse stuck her head in the door. “Curt Lohan?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have an urgent call at the nurses’ station: a woman who has refused to stop calling until we found you and brought you to the phone.”

  Curt stood and released Fawn’s hand after giving it a gentle squeeze. He followed the nurse from the room. When they reached the counter, the nurse lifted the receiver and punched a button. “You can take the call here.”

  “Thank you,” Curt said. He took the phone. “This is Curt Lohan.”

  “Dr. Lohan, this is Tiffany Bar, a colleague of Samuel Tolen. We talked several hours ago.” There was stress in her voice.

  “Has Tolen surfaced?”

  “Morbid choice of words. He was brought to the hospital early this morning. He sustained cracked ribs, a fractured tibia, and too many cuts and bruises to count.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “I spoke to him after the Navy rescue divers retrieved him from the St. Johns River near the Shands Bridge. He was shot by a woman. Fortunately, he was wearing his Kevlar vest. Unfortunately, he was in handcuffs. The fall from the bridge battered his body, and he sunk to the bottom. He only survived because he located a World War II vessel on the riverbed.”

  “World War II vessel? I explored that ship not long ago.”

  “We know. I read him a full report of your activities shortly after you two met, so he knew the ship’s location. His watch displays GPS coordinates, which allowed him to find the vessel where you had reported breathable air was trapped. He ensconced himself there, and it was the only thing that kept him alive. He used his watch, which has a built-in homing beacon, to contact me. I was able to send help to retrieve him.”

  “Wow. Ms. Bar, how did you find me?”

  “Closest hospital to the events.”

  “Who is the woman who shot Tolen? One of the COTE members?”

  “Her name is Josette Laval. She’s someone with a personal axe to grind against Tolen. She may or may not be working with the Cult of the End. Local police are guarding Tolen’s room, but I’ve spoken to my superior, Director Vakind, and he has requested that the FBI provide protection in case Laval learns Tolen’s not dead and comes after him again. The agent’s name is Link Johnsten, in case you run into him. Tall, good-looking guy with blond hair and a small scar below his right sideburn; could pass for a male model.”

  “Seems to be a trend with these government agents,” Curt remarked.

  “Dr. Lohan, I’m here to support your efforts, whatever those might be. I know Tolen, and that’s what he would want. He wanted me to tell you that he subdued one of the cult members at the camp on the north end of Green Cove Springs.”

  “Subdued?”

  “Killed in self-defense. Given that one other man Tolen subdued had a tattoo on his head tied to the events down there, you might want to go to the camp, which appears abandoned now, and examine the head of the corpse…if the body didn’t float away when the river swelled, that is.”

  Examining the head of a corpse which had been outside in the elements since last night was not a pleasant thought, but maybe the man had tattooed information on his head regarding the location of the third God Tool. It was a long shot, but Curt felt a surge of hope.

  Bar continued, “Tolen also said something about lightning strike coordinates. And he mentioned the date of July 7th, but I didn’t understand why it was important. He tried to tell me something else, something about rock fragments, but the paramedics had given him strong pain killers by that time, and he became incoherent.”

  July 7th. Curt knew the date well. That was the day the gunpowder magazine at the Castillo de San Marcos was opened, and he first entered it. This had eventually led to the discovery of the Fish. What was so important about that day?

  “Is your cell phone working?” Bar asked.

  “I have no idea where it is.” He remembered seeing Sherri’s cell phone on the small table in her hospital room. “Give me your number. I’ll call you back on my girlfriend’s cell in a minute.” Bar provided her number and Curt hung up. He went upstairs to Sherri’s room and called Bar back. “Bar, the number is 904-555-4932.”

  “I’ll text you with the location of the camp. Um, if you don’t mind, can you bring me up to speed on exactly what’s going on? Tolen never elaborated. I know about the Egyptian text and the Cult of the End, but what in God’s name was that heat mass streaking across the river last night?”

  “I’ll call you on the way and explain everything, but you’re not going to believe me,” Curt hung up. He walked over, gave Sherri a light kiss on the cheek, and left.

  CHAPTER 7

  Lowered from a helicopter, Clay County Firefighter Paul Gigglion was the first one to reach the downed Hughes 500D at daylight. Others, including the coroner, would be here within the hour. The heat of the day was building quickly.

  The scene was worse than he had anticipated.

  The small, crumpled helicopter was barely recognizable. The blades had been sheared off. From the air, he had seen part of one propeller about ninety feet to the south. There was a faint smell of gas in the air, which was not surprising. What was surprising is that the craft hadn’t caught fire in the aftermath of the wreck on Bayard Point. How a woman had walked away from this carnage was a miracle, although the pilot hadn’t been so lucky.

  Gigglion tied a handkerchief over his mouth and nose to help quell any stench. He proceeded to step through the muck in his rubber boots until he reached the cockpit. There he was met with a ghastly sight. The pilot, whom he had already been briefed on and knew to be Michael Roberson of Fernand
ina Beach, was slumped forward, his face angled toward the firefighter. One eye was missing, and his mouth had been ripped open at one end. Blood had crusted on his forehead. More dried blood was caked on what was left of the front windshield.

  Poor guy.

  Gigglion exhaled. It never got any easier no matter how many times he saw a body, especially when a death had been as violent as this one. He leaned in and carefully felt the victim’s right wrist to check for a pulse following standard protocol. Rigor mortis had already begun to set in. The rancid smell filtered in despite the handkerchief. He was just about to pull back when Gigglion noticed something white on the floor near Roberson’s feet. He leaned in and reached forward, trying to avoid the body. Turning his head away, he blindly felt around until he came across a paper. He retrieved it and sloshed away from the cockpit and the abrasive odor of stale flesh.

  Gigglion stared at the unopened envelope, crumpled and stained. In messy handwriting, it was addressed to Fawn Cortez-Roberson, the decedent’s wife and survivor of the crash.

  Gigglion tucked the letter into his pocket.

  CHAPTER 8

  Bar hung up from speaking with Dr. Lohan. She had to admit, what he had told her was difficult to digest. While she had supported Tolen on bizarre missions before, their work had never breached the normal edges of physics and science. A Fish that extends life, the Staff of Moses that transforms into a Serpent, people consumed by the Serpent passing through into the Garden of Eden, a cult trying to destroy humanity by consulting a scroll. What Dr. Lohan had explained was, quite simply, in the realm of fantasy; supernatural events impossible to fathom. She had laughed out loud more than once as Dr. Lohan had talked, which, she realized in retrospect, was probably not very professional. Yet, the notion that the very existence of mankind might be under attack was unnerving. There was no denying the two hurricanes which had sandwiched the state of Florida last year had miraculously disappeared when they reached the coast. This unexplainable weather condition still had meteorologists baffled.

  As implausible as Dr. Lohan’s story sounded, if Tolen was involved, he had good reason. He was the most logical, intuitive man she had ever met, and given that innocent people had perished and a little girl had been kidnapped by this crazy cult, she would do whatever she could to bring the people responsible to justice, save the little girl, and apprehend Josette Laval.

  Bar was still concerned about Tolen. He had sounded so weak on the phone earlier. There had been no further word from the hospital about his condition.

  She paced the room. She had to do something to take her mind off Tolen. She returned to her computer and pulled up the picture taken by the coroner in Florida of the shaved, tattooed head of the deceased COTE member Tolen had tangled with several days ago while driving on the outskirts of Green Cove Springs. She had already translated the ancient script:

  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.

  Now, studying the photograph online, she focused on a small mole just below the tattoo. She enlarged the image two hundred percent. It wasn’t a mole after all, but a small tattooed insignia that resembled the copyright symbol, but not exactly. It had a “c” inside a circle, split by a horizontal line. Bar realized this was the identification mark of the tattoo artist. She began a database search. Since tattoos had become prevalent over the last three decades, there had been an effort to catalogue online directories of artists’ signatures and associated tattoo parlor identification marks. With any luck, she might find the artist who performed the work, and find out more about the Cult of the End.

  CHAPTER 9

  Carr Nash watched as Jed Rassle threw a fist into the face of Jason Goss, which sent the man folding to the ground. Jason was barely able to push himself up. Before he could recover, Rassle was on him again, hammering a brawny fist into Jason’s nose. Blood splattered in all directions as the smaller man fell again in a heap. Rassle kicked him hard in the ribs.

  “Oh my gawd,” his blonde girlfriend yelled, “Stop it!”

  Carr Nash was livid, yet he needed information. “Indeed, Mr. Rassle, do pause for a moment.” Nash walked over to Jason and glared down on him. Jason was writhing on the ground in pain. In the early morning light, Nash saw the contorted grimace on Jason’s face.

  “What did I do?” Jason choked and spit out blood.

  “My dear Jason, where do I begin? Let’s see: first you convinced some of the others to shave their heads and tattoo stanzas of my translations on their scalps. You know, I had almost gotten over that one. They grew their hair out and covered them up. No harm, no foul. Plus, it let them feel more engaged with our mission; gave them a sense of camaraderie. Not a brilliant move, but I understood your passion for our efforts.

  “Then Mr. Rassle tells me that you and Blondie here decided to share some of the text with a reporter friend with whom Blondie used to work. Now I ask you, on a scale of one to ten, where would you rate that among the most stupid decisions of your life? This one’s got to be right up there at or near the top,” Nash said shaking his head. He offered his hand. Jason took it, and Nash assisted the man to his feet. Jason pinched his nose as blood trickled down his mouth and chin. He kept his other hand pressed to his ribs.

  “Mr. Nash,” Jason huffed in a pleading voice, “we had an idea. We knew you hadn’t figured out the text specific to the third Tool,” he wheezed, coughed, “but she did. She figured out which fortification it referred to, at least.” Jason dropped his head and spit blood. He winced in pain.

  “So you sent the text to a reporter. That makes perfect sense, Jason,” Nash said mockingly, gently slapping Jason on the back. He violently punched Jason in the gut. Jason doubled over, gagged, and spit more blood on the ground.

  “Please, no!” the woman shouted. She started to move toward Jason, but Nash stared her back.

  “No…you don’t…understand…” Jason pleaded in gasping breaths. “She knows…she knows…” He coughed uncontrollably.

  The woman rushed to Jason, sobbing as she tried to help him upright.

  Nash considered the couple with disdain. Fucking idiots.

  Nash nodded to Jed Rassle. Rassle pulled the large hunting knife from the sheath on his belt and descended upon the couple.

  CHAPTER 10

  As Curt drove toward the COTE’s camp, he realized how tired he was. He had caught a few hours’ sleep last night when he passed out in the boat after the ordeal with the Serpent, but he was weary given everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. Mental fatigue had caused him to misread Bar’s directions, and he made several wrong turns before he arrived at the specified location, and parked. Curt left the vehicle, placing a pair of scissors in his back pocket. The thought of cutting the hair on the head of a corpse was something he tried to push from his mind until it became necessary to face it.

  He walked along a rural dirt trail. The first thing he spotted was a car obliterated by fire: Tolen’s rental car according to Bar. The body should be nearby. She had warned Curt that the corpse was also charred, so Curt was prepared for a horrid sight. As he scanned the area, it was apparent the flood waters had altered everything in the woods. There was natural flotsam—primarily Hydrilla and river hyacinth—wrapped around trees and spread out everywhere. The ground was mushy and reeked of foul water.

  Curt proceeded with trepidation to the area where Bar said Tolen had covered the body in leaves, but it was no longer there. The ground had been scoured by the incoming river water. The leaves were gone, leaving behind only a pocked landscape of mud and small puddles.

  “Great, I’m looking for a gruesome corpse in a newly formed primordial swamp. Doesn’t get much better than this.”

  If the water had, in fact, unseated the body, it had probably been drawn out into the creek when the flood receded. He continued in that direction.
>
  Curt slogged forward toward the creek through the labyrinth of pine trees. With each step, he sunk into the wet earth. Perspiration formed on his face as the humidity enveloped the area in a palpable blanket of moisture.

  In time, he came upon a clear area adjacent to the creek. The air remained stale; rancid. A pervasive gurgling droned in the air, as if the land were trying to suck the excess water back into the river. Tent spikes dotted the water-saturated ground. There was no doubt that this is where the camp had been.

  Curt roamed about in a grim search for the body of the cult member. Close to the creek, he found one of the tents caught in some underbrush. He walked over, pulling the tattered material clear of the foliage. Wrapped inside was a satchel. Despite the cresting river, it had remained dry, protected by the nylon tent material.

  Curt opened the satchel and removed several of the pages he found inside. The first few sheets compiled an aquifer report for the county showing locations of natural springs. The last page was lightning strike data dated July 7th of last year, also specific to the county. Each lightning strike was listed by GPS coordinates. This was the report Tolen had mentioned to Bar. He placed them back inside and looped the satchel over his shoulder. He would examine them later. At the moment, he still had a body to find.

  Curt surveyed the area. His only option was to venture to the waterline. The creek was just ahead. As Curt made his way forward, he spotted a mass floating in the water a dozen feet from the bank. Splotched, with dark patches across an alabaster form, the grizzled remains of a man bobbed lazily, his charred back exposed above the surface. His face was out of sight. On the top of his head, a clump of hair floated back and forth. One mangled arm was visible to the side of the body while the other one and both legs were out of sight.