End in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 3)

by Gary Williams

  “Dr. Lohan, its Bar. You were right about Terrence Courtland. He entered Fort Clinch State Park via the guard station at 3:18 p.m. on July 7th. He was driving a white Honda Civic registered to a Daniella Truson, which had been reported stolen on the west side of Jacksonville two days before. Several days later, the car was discovered abandoned at the park campgrounds. Terrence Courtland drove into Fort Clinch State Park, but he didn’t drive out, at least not in the vehicle he had stolen.”

  “Thanks Bar,” Curt said.

  “One other thing. I’m coming down there. I’ll be boarding a plane shortly. I’m going to see Tolen. I’ll be out of reach for the next few hours while airborne.”

  “Understood.”

  Curt hung up and spoke to Fawn, “Sounds like you were right. Terrence Courtland accessed the secret underground room on our magical date.”

  They came upon a line of boulders extending into the water, creating a jetty. Just beyond was a long pier. They carefully climbed over the boulders and walked under the pier. In time, the dark structure of Fort Clinch came into view on the moonlit horizon.

  “Ahead, the shore narrows and the footing is not as solid,” Fawn said. “The sand is uneven with pockets of grass.”

  They slowed, careful of each step. More and more, Fawn thought back to the events of last year, and her heart was suddenly beating quickly.

  Fort Clinch is a pentagonal brick fortress comprised of five bastions with both inner and outer walls. Fawn led them to the north bastion. The weathered brick wall stretched upward, accentuated by moonlight. They slowly made their way into and through the shallow ditch abutting the wall. The earthy smell of the grass and weeds within the shallow gully brought back memories of hiding there the first time Fawn had breached the fort after hours.

  “It’s like you’re an old pro at this,” Curt said.

  “You have no idea,” Fawn said, making her way to one of the vertical slit windows of the bastion. Without hesitation, she climbed through. The only light inside was the moonbeam slanting inward. Once on the floor, she removed her electric lantern from the bag and flicked it on. The inner bastion lit up; the aged red brick walls suddenly became visible. To the right, the enclosed spiral stairwell leading to the top of the bastion was cast in deep shadows.

  Curt followed her. “Officially, this now counts as the second national monument I’ve broken into in the last calendar year.” He withdrew his lantern from the bag and switched it on.

  “Please give me the hammer and block of wood.”

  “My pleasure. It was starting to chafe.” Curt handed the tools to her.

  Fawn stepped through the arch at the far side of the bastion. They traversed a grassy area between the curtain wall and the natural rampart; a swell of earth that lined the interior of the garrison. Fawn continued toward the gallery with Curt in tow. Each bastion had an accompanying gallery consisting of a long, brick-enclosed tunnel that stretched underneath the wall of earth and led to the fort’s courtyard.

  At the entrance to the gallery, Fawn stopped. She placed her lantern on the ground. “This is the spot,” she said, pointing to the brick overhead in the archway.

  Curt stepped forward, lifting his lantern to illuminate the area. “Is that writing on the side?”

  “What?” Fawn had not noticed writing before, and she thought she had examined it thoroughly.

  “It’s difficult to see. I know this is crude, but I can make it stand out with water.” Curt licked two fingers and massaged them on the side of the brick. Sure enough, numbers became visible. Curt read them aloud: “2521.”

  “Huh, I never noticed.”

  “May have been stamped by the company that made the bricks,” Curt said. “So now, how do we get in the underground room?”

  Fawn pressed the block of wood against the crown brick and tapped it with the hammer. Just as before, the brick receded, producing the sound of a vacuum suction. “This is where things get interesting.” Curt started to say something, but his voice was drowned out by a deep rumbling noise. He stepped back apprehensively.

  “This is normal,” Fawn assured him.

  “Normal for who?”

  Picking up her lantern, Fawn motioned him back inside the bastion. She laid the block of wood and hammer on the ground and led him into the enclosed stairwell where she ascended part way. By now, the rumbling had ceased. Curt’s expression was about what she had expected when he saw the now-gaping hole in the curved side wall: wide-eyed fascination.

  “This is incredible. I believed you all along about a secret room, but that it’s been hidden all these years inside a national monument is truly remarkable.” Curt peered in the opening with his lantern. “Seems to be about a dozen feet deep.”

  “It’s deeper than that.” She leaned in beside him and pointed downward. “There are handholds continuing down this inner wall.”

  “It would be tricky climbing down while holding the lanterns,” Curt said. “I’ll climb down first, and you can drop them to me.” He threw his leg over the edge, then froze. “There’s nothing down there that’s going to eat me, is there?”

  “I’m not making any guarantees,” she said, taking his lantern.

  Curt hesitated as if considering her words. Then slowly, he flipped his other leg over the side and positioned his body against the inner wall. He gradually slid down, securing his feet in the cutout grooves with each downward step.

  Fawn held one of the lanterns out into the dark cavity to provide light. From above, she watched Curt gradually descend along the wall. For the first time, she considered the implications of what they were doing: seeking another Tool with supernatural abilities to transform into a creature. Could it really be down there in the same place I searched last year? How close did I come to discovering it back then? Then another thought struck her: What if Terrence Courtland came across the third God Tool? He might have removed it.

  “I’m down,” Curt called from below. “The lighting sucks. Drop one lantern at a time. At least I’ve got two chances.”

  “First lantern coming down on the count of three. One….two…three.” Fawn let go.

  Below, Curt caught the lantern, cradling it to his body. They had equal success with the second. Now Fawn was the one ensconced in darkness as she stood in the stairwell peering over at Curt below. A chill passed over her. She flung one leg then the other over the ledge. Using the handholds, she made a quick descent to the well-lit base.

  “This place is amazing,” Curt said, handing her back her lantern.

  “This way,” Fawn directed, pointing to remnants of yellow police tape on the ground in the corner where a tall, narrow opening led into darkness. “I warn you, this is going to be tough. The corridor we have to pass through is very narrow: high but narrow. I struggled getting through before. It’ll be worse for you.” Fawn slipped sideways into the opening, keeping the light out before her. She edged forward, squeezing between the close brick walls. A resounding dose of claustrophobia returned. She remained intent on pressing through, sliding sideways one step at a time.

  With her head facing forward, she could only hear Curt’s grunts of discomfort and the strain of clothing material being stretched and challenged.

  “You ventured in here by yourself without knowing where it led?” Curt asked incredulously.

  “Not one of the smartest things I’ve ever done, I assure you.”

  It was a grueling effort and took longer than Fawn recalled. She was perspiring profusely by the time she reached the end of the narrow vent. She popped out with a tremendous exhale. Curt soon joined her. He wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his arm.

  “This way. Let’s go.” Fawn led Curt down a short hallway.

  At the end, she drifted left into a barren room. “When I first found this place, there were candles in the corners and a table. The authorities must have removed them.” She focused ahead where the four black bricks were spaced in the wall. It was here, in the center of the four bricks, she had penetr
ated the wall to discover the jeweled Aztec crown. The wall had since been repaired, as evidenced by the newer bricks. She reached out and touched the rough surface. “Locked by four black stones,” she repeated the Scroll of Edict text. She looked to Curt. “Now what?”

  Curt stood beside her, also placing his hand on the wall. He moved his fingers from one black brick to the next, until he had touched all four.

  “Wherever this Tool is, it’s not behind the wall,” Fawn said. “I’m the reason they had to fill this in with new bricks.”

  “You didn’t break through any of these black bricks, did you?”

  “No,” Fawn shook her head.

  “Locked by four black stones,” Curt repeated. He again touched the black brick on the left. This time, he gave a firm push.

  To Fawn’s surprise, it gave slightly, retreating into the wall about an inch and a half before returning to its original position.

  Curt glanced around, then back at Fawn. “Well, that was interesting.”

  Fawn felt her adrenaline build. “It receded like the brick in the gallery.”

  “But this one didn’t stay recessed, and as far as I can tell, nothing happened.”

  “Do it again,” Fawn urged.

  Curt did. The brick sunk in but returned just like before.

  Fawn reached out to the lowest black brick. She gave it a push. Like the other, it slowly sunk in, then popped back out.

  Curt tried the third black brick, and Fawn tried the fourth, each with the same result.

  “These bricks are obviously the key. What are we doing wrong?” Fawn asked.

  Curt walked away from the wall, paced to the other side of the room, and returned. “What about the number we found on the pinnacle brick in the gallery? What if ‘2521’ is the key?”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know,” Curt rubbed his chin. “Maybe these have to be depressed in a specific order to open the wall.”

  Fawn continued to stare at the wall by the light of the lantern. The four black bricks appeared random without any pattern or symmetry. “2521. 2-5-2-1.”

  “Fawn,” Curt said taking a step back, “say the numbers again individually.”

  “2-5-2-1.”

  “Or it could be read as 25-2-1.”

  “What’s the point? We can’t assign numbers to the black bricks.”

  “What if the positions of the bricks represent hours and minutes on the face of a clock?”

  Fawn studied the wall. “Well, the top one is between twelve o’clock and one o’clock. The one on the bottom right is four o’clock. This next one to the left is seven o’clock, and the one above it to the side is nine o’clock. How does that correlate to 25-2-1?” She had no sooner said the numbers when it clicked. “It doesn’t mean 25-2-1. It means twenty-five to one, as in twenty-five minutes to one o’clock.” She took her finger and, in turn, pointed to the brick between twelve o’clock and one o’clock and to the seven o’clock bricks. “And twenty-five to one stated a different way is 12:35. The hour hand is between twelve and one, and the minute hand is on the seven.” With growing excitement, she reached her right hand forward and depressed the black brick near the top, waited for it to return to place, then depressed the seven o’clock brick.

  Nothing happened.

  “Try them at the same time,” Curt suggested.

  Using both her hands, she pressed the bricks at once. They retracted then returned. Still nothing happened.

  “I don’t get it,” Curt began. “I was sure—”

  The ground under their feet began to rumble. It felt like an earthquake to Fawn. The entire floor of stone began to slide into the base of the wall before them. Startled, Fawn and Curt whipped around and took several steps away to avoid getting their feet caught in the retracting floor. A gap appeared on the other side of the room. The floor stopped, and there was silence.

  Fawn could feel her heart racing. She eased forward and stared into the opening between the back wall and the floor, which now took up half the enclosure.

  Curt knelt down holding his lantern. “Amazing.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Fawn could see a ramp angling down out of sight underneath the floor where they stood.

  Curt stepped down and squatted on the slanted slab. “The angled gap between the ramp and floor is narrow. We’ll need to lie down to slide through. Before we do, I want to know where it goes.” He extended his lantern into the opening.

  Fawn eased down and joined him, using her lantern to provide more light through the slanted aperture. The ramp ended just beneath the floor. Although difficult to make out, the ground was about six feet below.

  Fawn didn’t wait. She handed Curt her lantern, lay down on her stomach and scooted sideways. The smell of aged stone was strong. When she reached the edge, she brought her legs out. Her body blocked most of the lantern’s light, and she experienced an uncontrollable shudder as she dropped her legs over the edge and slowly lowered her body. She was relieved when she felt the ground.

  “Hand me my light,” she called.

  Curt wedged her lantern down through the opening, and she grabbed it.

  A few seconds later, Curt was beside her. There was just enough headroom for him to stand.

  The enclosure was about the same size as the room above, but that was the only similarity. To Fawn’s amazement, instead of the red bricks used for the construction of Fort Clinch, the walls were pale and smooth, adorned with ornate artwork: a bevy of interlocking pictures and vibrant mosaics decorated the stone.

  Curt and Fawn moved to the left side where the wall was covered with bas-reliefs with one central theme: angels. He reached up and touched a warrior angel, replete with an armored breastplate, colorful pteruges, and a long tunic. The warrior angel was centered on the wall and was, by far, the largest and most ornate angel depicted. Above his head, the angel wielded a long, gilded sword. “This is remarkable.”

  “That’s the Archangel Michael,” Fawn said. “He’s dominating this scene.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Good Catholic upbringing.”

  With his lantern, Curt headed toward the other wall. Fawn followed him. Here, the artwork was in stark contrast to the first wall.

  “This appears…Mesoamerican, maybe?” Fawn said.

  “You’re right. I recognize this structure,” he said pointing to the focal image on the wall. “It’s the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, located thirty miles from Mexico City.”

  “Are those…snakes?”

  “Snake-like creatures, anyway.” Curt’s eyes widened.

  “What?”

  “The Temple of Quetzalcoatl is also known as the Temple of the Feathered Serpent.”

  “Our Serpent didn’t have feathers.”

  “Yes, but Father N told me the third Tool’s creature form is a bird. If it merges with the combo Fish/Serpent…”

  “I get your point.”

  “Fawn, let me see the printout of the text.”

  She pulled the paper from her pocket and handed it to Curt.

  He read the first line of the third stanza out loud, “Once beside the yellow orbs.”

  “What? Does that mean something to you?”

  “It does now. Last year, hundreds of yellow spheres were found in a tunnel discovered underneath the Temple of Quetzalcoatl. Sounds like this temple among the ancient ruins of Teotihuacan once held the third God Tool.”

  Fawn examined the image of the edifice. At the top of the six-layered temple, a long gilded sword was stabbed into the rounded peak. “Look, the Sword of Michael again. The text references a long blade. I think we have our answer as to what the third Tool may be.”

  “Can you enlighten me on some more of your Catholic education about Michael? I have to admit, I hadn’t given much consideration that angels really exist.”

  “Well, I don’t remember everything; mainly that he was a protector and the leader against the forces of evil. In response to the prayers of Pope St. Gregory the Great, M
ichael appeared with his sword over a mausoleum in Rome. Michael used his sword to absorb a devastating plague in the sixth century, I think. After that, the sword disappeared.”

  Curt replied thoughtfully, “The Plague of Justinian, one of the greatest plagues in history. The cause was the same organism that resulted in the Bubonic Plague.” He returned to the image on the wall. “The most pertinent question for our situation is how would the Sword of Michael get here from Mexico?”

  Just ahead, a doorway led into the darkness. Fawn headed toward it. Her light revealed an abbreviated corridor. Holding her lantern before her, she passed through the doorway into a short hallway leading into a much larger room. Curt stayed close on her heels.

  Rows of flat stone benches reached toward the front of the room, separated by a center walkway. Fawn guessed there were at least thirty-five benches in all. What could only be described as a pulpit was at the far end. Made of stone, the four-foot upright structure was narrow, no more than eighteen inches squared. Behind, was a large rectangular area set into the floor, several feet deep, and empty from what she could see. On the walls to either side were the outlines of arched windows, although they were no more than replicas carved into the solid rock. In fact, everything in the room was made of stone.

  Fawn spoke, “Is this some sort of shrine?”

  “I’d say a temple. The question is, what’s it doing underneath Fort Clinch?”

  Fawn followed Curt up the center aisle. The pews had been hewn with amazing precision. They reached the pulpit and circled around it, arriving at the large rectangular depression in the floor. Fawn gingerly stepped down and walked the perimeter. The depression measured approximately ten feet from right to left, seven feet from front to back, and two feet deep. A chalky brownish dust had congregated at the inner edges. Fawn reached down and picked up some of the off-colored dust, rubbing the substance between her fingers and then putting it to her nose. “Whew, this smells awful.”

  Curt stepped down into the shallow hold. “Look,” he said, kneeling to get a closer look at something.

  Fawn brought the light closer, and in the side wall near the top edge, she saw a three-inch-thick wooden dowel set flush within a circular hole. Directing the light revealed more dowels like the first running along the inside wall and spaced about ten inches apart. Fawn touched the end of one. “Smooth,” she said, peering at Curt.