‘Christ!’ Mabus punches the closest wall, then rubs his knuckles as he collapses into an easy chair. ‘So? What do we do?’
‘Only one thing to do, we get rid of this Vazquez woman before the public finds out she’s pregnant. I’ve already got my sources working on finding her. Fortunately, Homeland Security’s overseeing her case, so it should be relatively easy to get to her.’
‘Do it. Spare no expense. I want that bitch and her demon seed dead by the weekend.’
2
‘Attention. Lead vehicle now approaching final destination. Have a nice day.’
The sound of the Jeep’s autopilot awakens Dominique. She stretches, inclines her seat, then glances at the digital clock. Seven-thirty. I’ve been asleep for two hours.
Evelyn Strongin’s black Toyota is three car lengths ahead, both vehicles exiting Smart Highway 95, following the ramp into St. Augustine, America’s oldest city.
It was in 1513 that famed explorer and treasure hunter Don Juan Ponce de Leon first arrived in Florida, claiming the ‘Land of Flowers’ for Spain. Fifty-two years later, King Philip II appointed Admiral Don Pedro Menendez de Aviles as governor of Florida to protect the colony from the French. Menendez arrived on August 28, 1565, the Feast Day of St. Augustine and quickly fortified the coastal town, naming it after the holiday.
St. Augustine’s history would be a bloody one. In 1586, Sir Francis Drake attacked and burned much of the city; in 1668, the pirate John Davis pillaged the town, murdering sixty people. With the British establishing colonies in the Carolinas and Georgia, Spain authorized the construction of the Castillo de San Marcos, a stone fort that surrounded the city, preventing it from being seized.
In 1763, Florida was ceded to England in exchange for Cuba, then returned to Spain twenty-three years later. The American Revolution forced Spain to relinquish Florida to the United States, and it eventually became the twenty-seventh state to be admitted to the union. America’s oldest city would fall prey to a yellow fever epidemic, then see its borders occupied by the Union Army during the Civil War.
St. Augustine’s bad run of luck would change in 1885, with the arrival of Henry Flagler.
The cofounder of Standard Oil saw the city’s potential as a winter resort, and was soon investing heavily in lavish hotels and a railway linking New York to St. Augustine. A new city hall, hospital, and several churches would follow, making the city founded fifty-five years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock the jewel of the South.
More than a century later, St. Augustine remains a popular tourist attraction, maintaining much of its old Spanish ambiance. The stone fort still remains, as do many of the city’s original cobblestone streets and dwellings. One home dates back some four hundred years, and locals claim the older sections of the city are haunted by the souls of the dead. ‘Ghost’ walking tours are given nightly in the old quarter, passing through dark streets and cemeteries where the spirits are said to be especially active.
Dominique disengages the autopilot, directing the Jeep along Orange Street and past the two looming stone pillars that once served as gateposts to the fortified city. The Toyota continues on for several blocks, then pulls into a parking lot across the street from an old brick drugstore.
Dominique parks next to Evelyn’s car.
The old woman climbs out, stretching to ease her stiff back. ‘I’m not used to sitting for so long. Come, my dear, we’ll pay our respects, then you’ll join me for dinner.’
Dominique follows Evelyn across the street and into the centuries-old drugstore.
‘This dwelling and its parking lot were built over a sacred Indian burial site. The souls of the desecrated are still quite restless.’ She points at the front window where the headstone of Seminole chief Tolomato sits. A wooden sign stands next to the gravestone.
Dominique reads the inscription:
‘NOTIS. THIS WERRY ELABORTE PILE IS ERECKTED IN MEMORY OF TOLOMATO, A SEMINOLE INGINE CHEEF WHOOS WIGWARM STUUD ON THIS SPOT AND SIRROUNDINGS. WEE CHERIS HIS MEMERY AS HE WAS A GOOD HARTED CHEEF. H E WOOD KNOT TAKE YOOUR SKALP WITHOUT YOU BEGGED HIM TO DO SO OR PADE HIM SUM MUNNY. HE ALWAYS AKTED MORE LIKE A CHRISTSUN GENTLEMEN THAN A SAVAGE INGINE. LET HIM R.I.P.’
‘Lovely.’
Evelyn stands before the grave marker, her eyes closed, her lips mumbling something incomprehensible. After several moments she opens her eyes, then leaves the dwelling without saying a word.
Dominique follows her outside. ‘Look, maybe this isn’t such a-’
‘One must adhere to proper etiquette, child. Let’s walk, my home’s not far from here.’
They continue to the corner, turning right on Cordova Street, its sidewalks shaded by oak trees. After several minutes they arrive at the sealed metal gates of an ancient cemetery.
Evelyn nods. ‘Tolomato Cemetery, one of the oldest graveyards in North America. Prior to 1763, the site was occupied by the Christian Indian village of Tolomato. The first bishop of St. Augustine is buried in the mortuary chapel at the rear of the cemetery. Most of the Spanish settlers preferred to be placed in stone crypts, our “New World” soil never considered holy ground.’
Evelyn continues walking.
Dominique remains by her side, the thought of so many old dead people lying so close sending chills down her spine. What am I doing here? Get back in your car and drive home to Palm Beach County where the blue-hairs are still alive and kicking.
Evelyn closes her eyes and bellows a bizarre laugh, as if sharing a private joke with a ghost.
Jesus, she’s a lunatic. Wonderful. You’ve wasted all evening escorting a nut job back to her loony bin. ‘Evelyn? Hello, Earth to Evelyn?’
The old woman turns, her azure-blue eyes radiant.
‘Listen, it’s getting late, and I have an early self-defense class. How about we do this another time?’
‘Your grandmother says she misses working the onion crops with you in the Guatemalan Highlands. Her knees and back always felt so much better after your evening swim in Lake Atitlan.’
Dominique’s skin tingles. ‘I was six. How did you…’
‘My place is just over there.’ She points to a two-storey red-brick, its paved walkway lined in white and purple impatiens.
The house is over two hundred years old, its security pad brand-new. Evelyn touches her fingertips to the soft rubber pad.
A click and the front door swings open.
Dominique follows the old woman through an arched corridor into a library, its floors made of beechwood, its furnishings contemporary. An entertainment center activates along one entire wall, broadcasting a CNN News-Flash:
‘… and in Antarctica, another glacier has separated from the Ross Ice Shelf, this one estimated at three times the size of the Irish Republic. Environmental scientists working with the United Nations insist that global warming has not escalated beyond anticipated figures for this year, despite the multiple pure-fusion detonations that vaporized large sections of Australia and Asia three months earlier. In other news-’
‘Shut down, please.’
The screen blackens.
‘That’s better.’ Evelyn turns to Dominique. ‘You must be famished. I took the liberty of ordering a few things on the trip up, they should be in the delivery pantry.’
Too hungry to argue, Dominique follows her into the kitchen, a room harboring the latest in voice-activated appliances. ‘Mmm, is that fresh garlic bread I smell?’
‘Yes. And pasta with marinara sauce.’ Evelyn opens the pantry door. Built into the exterior wall is a three-foot-by-five-foot stainless-steel hot box, one end opening to the pantry, the other to the outside of the house, allowing access for local deliveries.
The old woman removes the hot pouch containing their dinner and sets it on the black pearl granite kitchen table.