Mark of the Devil (8 page)

Thursday, 18 October 2001
Tallahassee, Florida

Matt entered the gray stone building on South Bronough Street. Not only frustrated by his experience with Henry Shoemaker and Eric Bruder the day before, he was now thoroughly irritated and short-tempered by the effort and time expended to find a parking place in the two or three blocks surrounding the inescapable shadow of the towering Florida state capitol building. He was at first surprised at the number of guards and elaborate security equipment in the entrance foyer, each of the guards immediately eyeballing the briefcase he carried in one hand, until he remembered,
Nine-eleven. Double security everywhere.

“Sir?” the middle-aged receptionist asked. Her desk was flanked by two uniformed, gun-toting state police officers. One was a female, an Amazon of a woman who Matt knew could probably rope, throw, and brand him in a heartbeat.

“Matthew Berkeley, b—e—r—k—e—l—e—y,” Matt answered. “North American Archeological Research and Preservation Association. I have an appointment with Dr. Brandy Mason, Chief, Bureau of Archeological Research. She’s expecting me.”

The receptionist turned slightly in her chair to a computer monitor. Her fingers ran with lightning speed across a keyboard placed to the left of the screen before pausing and saying, “ID, please.”

Matt fished out his wallet, opened it, and showed the receptionist both his South Carolina driver’s license and Naval Reserve identification card. The two police officers leaned over the desk, checked the photographs, eyed Matt, and nodded, the movement of each perfectly synchronized with the other.

“Commander, Navy Reserve, huh?” the female officer said. “I’m in the Reserves over in Pensacola. Brown shoe aviation. Lieutenant Commander. What are you? Black shoe?”

“SpecWar and later Surface Warfare.”

“Special Warfare, huh?” she said, her sudden smile showing immediate respect. A quick frown from the male officer and her smile disappeared, replaced with a businesslike “Through the scanner.” Pointing at the X-ray machine, she added, “Briefcase through there.”

Her words were immediately followed by the receptionist’s. “Dr. Mason’s office is on the second floor, room two thirty-two.” She handed Matt a visitor’s badge with the room number hand-printed in bold black numerals. “You must go straight there. Should you need to go anywhere else, please be sure you’re escorted by someone wearing the proper ID, or you’ll be stopped.”

“I know what you’re telling me, Matt, and I see the copy of the application in your hand, but the original is not here.”

“Gotta be, Brandy. UPS overnight, signature required. UPS says delivered ten fifteen, morning after I sent it.” Matt marveled at how Dr. Brandy Mason seemed to remain ageless over the past ten years. With exception of the wisps of gray along the edges of her hairline, the milk chocolate of her face was as smooth and lovely as the day he’d said goodbye to her and her daughter, ten-year-old Josey—the day Josey had finally called him Uncle Matt. It was also the day Jeff, his godson and Brandy’s brother, was at last free to live his life without the suspicion of murder hanging over his head; the day Matt almost lost his own life saving the other three deep in the Okefenokee Swamp.

Brandy took the copy of the application Matt held out to her, looked at it, then, laying it on the desk, shook her head. “Even if we’d received it, it’s dated October fifteenth. The AFI application is dated October tenth, received in the building on the eleventh. I checked with the mailroom. AFI must have known something was down there even before the hurricane.”

Matt pushed up from his chair and walked to the window, saying over his shoulder, “I don’t believe it, Brandy. It’s been backdated. And with the right coaxing, it oughta be easy enough for somebody in the mailroom to cook the records showing when it was received. Anyway, Bruder and his people should’ve at least gotten my application.”

“Matt, with the nine-eleven terrorist attack, followed by the anthrax scare, with talcum powder in envelopes and packages from half the nuts in Florida coming in here, our mailroom people are scared half to death. It’s a wonder we accept anything through the mail, UPS, FedEx, or anything else.”

Matt turned to a small table holding a warming plate and a carafe of coffee. He held a cup up in Brandy’s direction.

“No thanks.”

Filling one of a set of four cups inscribed with the Great Seal of the State of Florida, he flopped down in a chair in front of Brandy’s desk. “I’m sorry, Brandy, but I don’t buy any of it. I’m betting when you told Bruder I’d found something off Jax Beach and instructed him to work with me, he went straight to AFI.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Then what’s he doing on AFI’s ship? With Henry Shoemaker, no less, and a coupla gorillas carrying machine pistols.”

Brandy’s eyebrows suddenly furrowed with concern at the mention of weapons. Just as quickly, the wrinkles cleared as though the words were never spoken. “Our people often go out with archaeological groups to make sure they don’t disturb, remove, or inadvertently destroy artifacts.”

“And, of course, with Shoemaker being who and what he is,” Matt observed, “Bruder jumped right on it. To put it in the vernacular, this whole thing is pure bullshit! The way he acted on that boat, Bruder’s in Shoemaker’s hip pocket, and what he’s doing is nothing more than a lie perpetrated on you and the state.”

“Damn it, Matt, you don’t know that,” Brandy shot back, her voice almost a shout. “You’ve got no evidence. AFI and Shoemaker have—”

Her words were cut off by a sharp rap on the door. Before she could reply, the door swung inward and a large, round, partially bald head jutted its way into the office. “Why, Miss Brandy, I’m so sorry. Didn’t know you had someone…oh, yes, I remember you telling me. Mr. Berkeley, isn’t it?”

The head, supported by a short, bordering-on-obese blob of male flesh in a double-breasted blue blazer, set off by a red, white, and blue tie imitating the U. S. flag, seemed to float its way into the room. The man’s hand, a fleshy extension of his sleeve, moved in Matt’s direction with unbelievable speed. “Always glad to meet one of Miss Brandy’s friends.”

Matt accepted the hand, its grip surprisingly strong.

“Matt,” Brandy said, quickly moving around the side of her desk, “this is State Senator Raleigh Jameson, Eighth District, which takes in part of Jacksonville and several surrounding counties. Senator, Matt Berkeley.”

“Senator,” Matt said with a respectful nod, “If it’s important, Dr. Mason and I seem to have hit an impasse and—”

“Yes, she did mention why you were coming over here from Jacksonville, I believe,” Jameson said, lowering himself into the chair that Matt had just vacated. “Unfortunate, but these things do happen.”

With one eyebrow raised, Matt looked at the man and asked, “What things, Senator?”

“Why, the AFI application for workin’ that underwater site off Jacksonville Beach. Yessiree bobtail, damned unfortunate for you and that other fellow over there, but those folks at Antiquity Finders are real good people. They know what they’re doin’.”

Perching himself on the side of the desk so he could face both Brandy and the senator, Matt nodded agreement. “I’m sure they do. I’ve seen the way they operate on a couple of occasions. Shame they don’t know where good business ethics begin and end.”

Jameson leaned forward. “Don’t know where you’re comin’ from, but AFI’s one of Henry Shoemaker’s operations, and they don’t come any finer than Henry.” Jameson nodded as though his pronouncements were edicts from above. “Done a lot for this state, its history and, yes, economically,” he continued. “Fact, whole damn South has benefited from Henry’s work. He’s got no reason to get into anything that’s not legitimate. If I was you, don’t think I’d go ‘round talkin’ like that, and I sure wouldn’t be pushin’ this thing about AFI’s application or whatever the hell they think they found out there.”

“What Steve Park and I found, you mean. You seem to know a lot about my application, Senator. Why’s that? From Brandy here, or did Henry Shoemaker tell you to butt in here on a private meeting and make sure I’m properly warned away?”

With amazing agility for a man his size, Jameson was on his feet, glaring at Matt. “You don’t talk to me like that, Mr. Berkeley. Friend or no friend of Miss Brandy’s, you’re wearin’ on my patience. You’re also bitin’ off more than you can chew on this one. Henry Shoemaker’s too important to this state—”

“And to your campaign finances, I bet,” Matt cut in.

“That’s enough, Matt,” Brandy lashed out. “Senator Jameson didn’t come in here to be insulted.”

“I know why he came in here, Brandy, and so do you. It was planned. AFI’s moved in on others just like they moved in on Steve Park and me. Like they did on NAARPA out in Arizona back in eighty-seven. But I’ll fight back, and Shoemaker knows it. One way or the other, somebody’s gotten to you on this. Maybe him,” Matt added, pointing at the red-faced senator.

“This is outrageous!” Jameson snapped.

Brandy Mason huffed her annoyance before marching stiffly toward the door. With eyes focused on Matt, she said, “After all the years we’ve known each other, you being godfather to my brother and adopted uncle to my daughter, you accuse me of being in collusion with AFI? No way.” Opening the door and standing aside, Brandy added, “I can’t help you, Matt, so you’d better go while we’re still on speaking terms.”

Pushing himself off the edge of the desk, Matt walked to the door, stopping in front of Brandy. “You’re more than just a friend to me, Brandy Mason. You’re like family. But something’s wrong here, and I’m gonna find out what it’s all about. If you don’t like that, I’m sorry. So far as the senator’s concerned…” Matt looked back over his shoulder and shook his head, swallowing the words that would only make things worse.

A look of pleading came over Brandy’s face. “A lot of people can get hurt on this thing if you keep on, Matt. Please, for my sake, let it go.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed as he noted the sudden change in Brandy’s voice and the imploring look in her eyes. “Somebody threatening you over this?”

Brandy shook her head. “No, no, it’s just that—”

Matt shook his head. “Then I’m sorry, but I’m gonna push this thing as far as I can. Steve Park and I found whatever it is. If AFI’s interested enough to have Bruder fake an application, aim machine pistols at me, and have some politician warn me off, they’ve gotta think we’ve found something of significance. It’s the AFI trademark, and no way I’m backing off.”

As Matt closed the door behind him, Jameson said, “Need to use your phone.”

“Over there,” Brandy answered, nodding in the direction of the phone on her desk. “Please, Raleigh, don’t let them hurt him. You heard me. My daughter, my brother…my father died in his arms in Vietnam. And yes, as he said, we’re like family. Please. Eric agreed. He promised.”

“Sorry, Miss Brandy. It’s out of my hands.”

Though the gate arm at the entrance to the small parking lot was down, Matt noticed the attendant’s one-room, hut-like structure was empty.
Great,
he thought.
Just how the hell do I get out of here?
His immediate reaction was to look through the pay window, expecting to see the guy asleep, but there was no one. A curtain to the tiny rest-room area was drawn back, revealing only an overflowing trash can, a sink, and a urine-stained toilet, all of which would have been condemned by the most casual of Health Department inspections. His next move was to look across the tops of the several dozen parked cars in the lot, but the lot appeared as devoid of human life as the attendant’s house.