End in the Beginning (The God Tools Book 3)

by Gary Williams

  He realized why Curt had sent him here: to retrieve Kay’s body. He mentally tried to brace himself for what he was about to find, yet the closer he drew to the shack, the more turmoil he felt. He still hadn’t told Cody that Kay was dead. He didn’t even know how to begin. The trauma of losing both his wife and best friend was more than any one man should have to endure. Nevertheless, the task of retrieving Kay’s body was the necessary closure he needed. Curt had known that. Scott prayed for strength to get through this as he pushed onward in a daze.

  Another Jon boat was moored to the front post and had drifted to the right side of the wooden structure when Scott arrived. It was empty, containing only a dull, washed-out tarp spread across the floorboard. Scott anxiously rowed to the front and tied off on the far left piling. He stepped up onto the dilapidated boards. The deck creaked and groaned under his full weight. He took the three-step staircase up to the small porch deck where he found a door sandwiched between two cedar rocking chairs. Directly beside the door was a large pot with a Poinsettia plant blooming vibrant red.

  Strange, this was June. Poinsettia plants bloom in winter, usually in December.

  Something told him to look back at the other Jon boat. From this higher vantage point, he could make out the shape of a body shrouded by the tarp on the floorboard.

  With trepidation, he returned down the steps and to the side deck. The boat drifted freely. Scott grabbed the gunwale and pulled it toward him.

  The form underneath the tarp was unmistakably human. He eased down into the boat and sat upon the bench seat. Slowly, with a heavy heart, he pulled the tarp back to reveal the ashen face of Curt Lohan.

  Seeing Curt’s corpse brought the reality of his friend’s demise down with a crushing blow.

  “I’m so sorry, Scott,” a quivering female voice said from behind.

  Scott turned with a start.

  Kay was standing on the deck with bloodshot eyes.

  His elation was unbridled. Scott leapt back onto the deck, hugged his wife passionately, and kissed her long and hard. Finally, he pulled back. “Is it…really you?”

  She nodded, wiping tears away. “Is Cody okay? What about Tina?”

  “They’re fine. But how? How is it possible? Curt told me you were dead?”

  “I was.”

  “Then how—?”

  “It was Curt, Scott. He somehow brought me back. I woke up in this shack hours ago. I could hear Curt’s voice when I came to. He told me to wait here…that you would arrive.”

  “Curt’s here?” Scott asked.

  “No,” Kay said dropping her head. “He spoke to me from beyond. I’m so sorry, Scott. Curt did it for you…for me.”

  Scott hung his head for a few seconds. “He told me he made a trade.”

  “It was my life for his, Scott.”

  This time, they both cried.

  ****

  Worldwide, 9.4 million people died when the Tree of Life was cut in half. Most met with death in fatal car accidents when the paralyzing pain struck, and another large number perished in airplane crashes. While a significant loss of life, out of seven billion inhabitants of Earth, the number was comparatively small. Not included in this death toll were the thousands of people who considered the bizarre event the start of the Apocalypse and took their own lives in the days that followed.

  The impact of the experience to those who survived was undeniable. The global panic and religious upheaval of “Near-Death Day,” as it came to be known, was unprecedented. The suicides were merely a precursor to a rash of instability that lingered for months. The phenomena fed into the hands of religious zealots anxious to offer up “Near-Death Day” as a cautionary tale of Man’s spiraling downfall. For nearly three years, news coverage offered nonstop theories as to the cause: everything from solar flares to mind-controlling sound waves to mass hysteria. Yet, in the end, it was a catastrophe that would never be adequately explained by either men of faith or men of science. Ultimately, only a handful of people would ever know the truth.

  CHAPTER 59

  Fawn and her father, Juan Velarde Cortez, stood at the tombstone of Mike Roberson. Fawn laid a bouquet of roses on his grave where he was buried next to his mother, Elizabeth Courtland, in the Bosque Bell Cemetery in Fernandina Beach, Florida.

  Fawn touched her belly where her child was growing. The doctors told her it was a miracle she hadn’t lost the baby considering the stress and strenuous activity she had endured, although no one except those involved knew exactly what had occurred.

  Fawn believed in her heart that Mike had been protecting her and their baby.

  ****

  At daybreak, on July 21st, Samuel Tolen, along with Scott and Kay Marks and Sherri Falco, met at Green Cove Springs Park. It seemed fitting they should come together for the task.

  The public park, nestled against the St. Johns River, was quiet. It would be hours before patrons would arrive to marvel at the spring boil and children would congregate on the play sets situated among the large oak trees.

  This was a somber day for Scott. Curt’s sacrifice had consumed his thoughts. Kay had convinced him that today might bring some small measure of closure.

  Tolen went first, opening the metal container and silently pouring his father’s ashes in the spring run. Scott wanted to offer words of comfort but didn’t know what to say. Tolen remained quiet and introspective as he watched the water race under the footbridge and carry the ashes out to the river.

  “Bye, Dad,” Tolen said softly.

  Tolen nodded at Scott. Scott stepped down into the shallow ravine beside him.

  “You know, Tolen, Curt didn’t like you when we first met on the pier, but by the end of it all, he admired the hell out of you.”

  Tolen nodded. “I’m honored to have him share the stream with my dad. I understand they were both lovers of the river.”

  Kay and Sherri stood back, both dabbing their eyes with tissues as Scott opened the urn and, with a shaking hand, poured Curt’s ashes into the water. Like Tolen, his eyes followed the stream out to the weed beds where the spring water met the St. Johns River. “I’ll miss you, my friend.”

  ****

  Sherri and Kay walked away arm in arm after saying goodbye. Scott followed behind them. Tolen took a few minutes to reflect upon his father’s life. By the time he scaled the ravine, he was alone.

  He made his way to the parking lot and was surprised to see Bar, on crutches, and FBI Special Agent Link Johnsten standing by his ’69 Camaro.

  “Thought you might like this back,” Johnsten said, motioning to the muscle car beside Tolen’s rented vehicle. “We recovered it from the Cult of the End’s abandoned camp near the river north of town. Drives fine, but the exterior needs some repairs. A little work and she should be good as new. Or, in this case, good as Certified Pre-Owned.”

  Tolen nodded to Johnsten. “Thanks.” He approached Bar on her crutches, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. What about you? Your break was severe.”

  “I’ll heal.”

  “You’re becoming quite the field agent.”

  “Yeah, I can fall through holes with the best of them.”

  Tolen briefly smiled. “Have you had a chance to run facial recognition on whoever broke into my father’s house?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t easy. I got one good shot of a man in a postal uniform from your father’s exterior video camera when moonlight struck his face. You do realize this could have been a common burglary. You were in the hospital, and the house was unattended.”

  “Yet, I sense you don’t think it was a common thief, either.”

  “You can read me too well, Tolen.” Bar handed him a folder. “Here’s the man’s rap sheet. Obviously, the postal uniform was a disguise.”

  “Tolen, you’ve had a busy enough morning,” Johnsten said. “Take a break. How about some breakfast for the three of us? My treat, mate.”

  Tolen started to open the folder, then stopped. “You’re right. Let’s eat.�
��

  “I want to drive the Camaro,” Tolen said. “I’ll meet you two at the diner on the corner of Orange and Maple.”

  “Done,” Johnsten said, handing Tolen the keys.

  Tolen climbed into the ’69 Camaro, tossing the folder on the seat beside him. He started the engine as Johnsten and Bar pulled away. Tolen put the car in drive, but dropped it back down to park. He picked up the folder and opened it.

  Inside was a photograph of a man identified as Charles Magnon, forty-two years old, born in Austin, Texas, never married, no children. A petty thief in his younger years, Magnon appeared to be a law-abiding citizen since his early twenties. He now worked in a cement factory in Galveston. All in all, this was a very unremarkable man.

  So what was the guy doing in Florida breaking into my house?

  Tolen thumbed back through several sheets until a phrase caught his eye: Charles Magnon was a member of the Neo-Nazi Party of America.

  Tolen put down the folder and opened the glove box. He plucked out the manila folder and pulled out the worn black-and-white photograph of the African American woman and Caucasian soldier he had discovered several weeks ago. He flipped the picture over and read the inscription:

  1919 – Miranda Bridgewater

  Although his great-grandmother was Miranda Hockley, the family resemblance was uncanny. He could no longer deny that this woman was his father’s grandmother. He could think of no other reason why his father would have kept the picture.

  He flipped the photo over. Tolen saw something he hadn’t noticed before. There was a faint black stamp of text in the upper left corner on the back that had faded over time. He realized it wasn’t text, but a symbol.

  The sign of a swastika.

  EPILOGUE

  In the years that passed, Scott never saw or heard from Samuel Tolen, Tiffany Bar, or Link Johnsten. Likewise, Father N seemed to disappear. Scott suspected that the holy man had returned to his reclusive lifestyle after successfully performing his role, apparently living out the remainder of his life in peace.

  He and Kay did see Curt’s ex-wife, Dr. Lila Falls, on occasion. She always made a point to drop by when she was in the vicinity, even if it was only to say hello before heading out on some archaeological endeavor. She had softened after Curt’s death. Scott suspected she never really stopped loving her ex-husband, and his demise had struck her especially hard.

  Kay and Fawn developed a deep friendship. Sewn together by their mutual experiences, Kay had supported Fawn during and after her pregnancy. Fawn had given birth to a healthy baby boy whom she named Michael Roberson II. Not a week went by that the two women didn’t chat on a long phone call, and they frequently got together for lunch. A couple days after her forty-sixth birthday, Fawn married the owner of a book store in Fernandina Beach.

  Sherri was offered a lucrative public relations position in a California firm shortly after the birth of her and Curt’s daughter, Faith. She and the two girls settled in Sacramento. Scott suspected she needed a fresh start, away from the place which was a daily reminder of Curt. Kay and Scott heard from Sherri via Christmas cards or birthday presents to Cody, but as is usually the case where friends are separated by a long distance, they eventually fell out of touch. As far as Scott knew, Cody and Tina never spoke again after a phone call on Cody’s fifteenth birthday. For two children who had once been linked as seeds for the continuation of the human race, Scott found it surprising that their friendship eventually dissolved.

  Scott and Kay had no more children after Cody. It wasn’t by design; it just didn’t happen. In time, Cody grew up, graduated high school, and attended Purdue University where he graduated with honors. The events in Eden were infrequently discussed. On the rare occasion when Scott brought them up, Cody seemed reluctant to talk about it, as if he was trying to purge the ordeal from his memory.

  Scott was able to retire at age fifty-six as the result of diligent financial planning. He and Kay traveled and enjoyed life to the fullest.

  After graduating from college, Cody went into the U.S. Navy as a career officer. Cody was thirty-one, on deployment in the Mediterranean Sea, when Scott contacted him about Kay’s death. She had taken ill with kidney disease and had died within a week. She was sixty-one.

  Kay and Cody had been Scott’s whole world, and it had been hard enough when Cody had gone off to college out of state. Kay’s passing left him empty inside. Scott grieved for nearly two years. At times, life didn’t feel worth living. It was Cody who reminded Scott that Curt had given him the gift of extra time with Kay after she had died in Six Mile Creek. For that, he was thankful. If not for Cody, Scott might never have overcome his sorrow for losing Kay.

  Eventually, Scott returned to an active life, in large part due to Cody’s marriage and first child, William Curtis Marks, the middle name in honor of the man who had saved Cody so long ago. Not long afterward, Scott began dating a woman Fawn introduced him to, and at the ripe age of seventy, he remarried.

  Scott occasionally considered the three God Tools. When they had returned through the portal, the Tools had become lost…on purpose, he assumed. They had most likely been redistributed and hidden somewhere in the world. Every time he passed a child, he wondered if they might be the next seed and if new players might be called upon to retrieve the God Tools and save humankind at some time in the future.

  Sometimes, Scott would sit at his desk in his study and think of the people he had lost, such as Professor Marvin Sellon. Then he would pull out the arrowhead, twirl it this way and that, and remember Curt. In the truest sense of the word, Curt was a hero; one whose deeds would never be heralded. Curt had readily sacrificed himself to bring Kay back and save everyone on Earth.

  That period of time—those weird, bizarre, unbelievable events with the three God Tools—remained crystal clear in his mind until the day Scott Marks died from a complication with pneumonia three days after his eighty-seventh birthday.

  Fifty years after last seeing Curt, Scott again joined his best friend on a bright and clear early spring day when Cody poured his father’s ashes into the run at Green Cove Springs City Park.

  As Cody turned to leave, he noticed an old man wearing a cassock standing over the spring boil. He seemed to be reading from a worn Bible.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Gary Williams lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with his wife. When he’s not walking his Yellow Labrador Retriever through the historic streets, he’s writing full time. His passions include history, sports, and fishing. He partnered with Vicky Knerly in 2008 and they have been a writing team ever since.

  Vicky Knerly is a native of Syracuse, New York, and currently resides in Palm Bay, Florida. She has two grown sons. Vicky has earned a bachelor’s degree in English, two masters’ degrees, and hopes to begin her doctorate in Fall 2015. She has won awards for her research-based writing. She currently works for a private university based in Melbourne, Florida, where she also teaches as an adjunct professor.