The Immortality Curse: A Matt Kearns Novel 3 Read online

Matt kept his eyes tightly closed as he felt the fine grit of swirling sand abrading his skin, and didn’t need it filling his eyes. He unrolled and started to stroke under the water, once, twice, his shoulder struck the bottom – he was heading the wrong way, and his breath was beginning to feel like a burning vacuum in his chest. He quickly unrolled, jammed his feet down on the hard surface and speared away from it, praying he was heading up, and not vertically away from an underwater outcrop.

  It was only a dozen feet to the surface, and Matt breached like a whale, sucking in air, and quickly spinning one way, then the other to quickly get his bearings. Thankfully, he had been washed well in from the churn zone, and saw no new monster sets bearing down on him. That was the good news. The bad news was his board was nowhere to be seen.

  Matt inhaled in a deep breath and turned to start his swim. He’d stay in the white water if he could, as off the edge of the reef the water was dark and deep – he knew there’d been shark attacks at Mavericks.

  Another surfer was paddling out, pushing something in front of him as he came. Matt waved.

  “Sorry dude, thought you had it for a second there.” He pushed the front half of Matt’s board toward him. “Collateral damage.”

  “Thanks.” Matt grabbed the four-foot section and pulled himself up on the busted new board, half-sinking it. He looked at the surfer and grinned. “Most expensive wave of my life.”

  The surfer grinned back. “But think of the memories, man.” He paddled on.

  Think of the memories, Matt repeated as he paddled. He was down here so he could avoid doing just that. The memories that Matt’s mind kept packed away weren’t the normal type of birthday parties, sunny days, or picnics in the park. Instead they were the types that were too rank and horrible to keep front and center.

  Matt knew stuff that normal people didn’t. He knew there were things that crawled from deep caverns below the earth, lurked in dark impenetrable jungles, or hid in frozen continents at the bottom of the world, waiting to consume flesh and sanity. Not anymore, he thought. From now on, he was going to stick to his lecturing work at Harvard, doing some research, tame consulting, and having the odd beer with his students. The money was okay, the work far less deadly.

  A half hour later he waded up onto the shore and sat down on the sand facing the water. He watched the huge waves crash down out on the distant break. He could feel the warm sun on his shoulders and neck – he sighed, feeling good, but pissed off.

  He stood, lifting the half-board, and quickly looked up and down the shoreline. There was still no sign of the rear half of the $800 board. Bummer. He could have at least salvaged the three detachable fins.

  He grabbed up his towel and rubbed it a few times over his hair and face. Then slipped his feet into an old pair of deck shoes and picked up a plastic bag containing his keys and phone. There were still a few days of vacation left, and his head hadn’t been caved in by the reef, so there was only one thing left for him to do – go shopping for a new board.

  Matt quickly checked his messages as he walked – there was only one, and it was from a number he didn’t recognize. It was marked urgent. He opened it.

  It was regarding obtaining some consulting advice for a multiple homicide case. There was a name and a title – R. Bromilow, Special Investigator, Federal Bureau of Investigations.

  “Hmm, the Feds, huh?” He pulled in a cheek. Why would they want to speak to him? He was a paleolinguist who specialised in ancient languages. He dropped the phone back into the bag.

  “Not my field, buddy.” He threw the towel over his shoulder and started up the track. It was a long walk back along the cliff trail and then even more on to the car park.

  *

  Matt pulled his rented Mustang into the car park of Half Moon Bay Lodge. It was a midnight-blue 2010 V6 convertible and in magnificent condition. The rental was pricey, but it was a holiday treat and this trip he planned to enjoy himself.

  As he pressed the button for the roof to lift and cover the cabin, he saw Brittany watching him from the main window. He smiled and waved.

  Paying for itself already, he thought.

  He left the remnants of the board in the trunk and used his towel to flick the sand from his ankles before heading into the large open foyer. Brittany gave him a blinding, West Coast smile. She leaned elbows on the reception desk top, her crisp uniform straining.

  “Hey Mathew, you’re back early. How was the surf?”

  “Broke my board on a 25-footer.” He smiled. “But my spirit is still strong.”

  She laughed. “Well people have died there, so I’m glad to see you’re still in one piece.” She turned and pulled a package from one of the pigeonholes behind her.

  Someone dropped something off for you at the desk. Didn’t see who, but looks kinda important I think.” She handed him a large envelope, marked: urgent.

  “Who even knows I’m here?” He took it from her, turning it around to look at the logo in the right top corner – it was the circular shield crest of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  “Thanks.” He turned away frowning down at it.

  “See you later, Matthew. Um, I’m here all day again.”

  “Huh?” He turned and smiled back at her. “Me too – all day and all night. I’ll be the lonely guy eating by himself.”

  “We-eell, if you want to go somewhere else…” She blushed as she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “I could take you somewhere.”

  He leant forward. “I’d love that.”

  “Great.” Her eyes seemed to darken with promise. “See you later then.”

  The look gave Matt a sudden tingling in his stomach, and he flashed her a smile before turning to jog up the steps.

  The Lodge was only two floors and his suite was at the front overlooking the water. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with an elbow, still staring at the envelope as if trying to draw meaning from the handwritten details on the front. Nice cursive writing, he thought.

  He tossed the envelope onto the bed and walked out onto the balcony to take in the ocean view. It was still early, only 10 am, and the water sparkled like diamonds on a soft, blue blanket. Further out there was a little haze, which was probably water vapor, kicked up by the huge swells pounding down just around the headland.

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head; the sun on his face was a warm kiss and his forehead felt tight from the dried salt. He was here for another few days, and tomorrow’s weather promised to be just as good. Matt breathed in, inhaling the warmth. Life was good, he thought.

  He stripped off and stepped into the shower. His stomach rumbled and he picked up his pace spinning the shower taps. Breakfast was served until 11, and he planned on setting the record for bacon, eggs, and toast consumption.

  In no time he was balancing trays of fruit, muesli, eggs, bacon, sausages, and two doorstop-thick slabs of toast, plus juice and coffee, as well as having the envelope and his MacBook tucked under his arm. The smell of the bacon was making his mouth water as he hummed and headed for an empty table in an alcove window.

  There were only a few people still having breakfast: an older couple, a family with two amazingly well-behaved children, and a young power couple in the far corner, incongruous in their formal attire at a beach community. The woman turned in his direction and he smiled and nodded, but if she saw him she gave no indication as her implacable expression never changed.

  Sitting down he unloaded all his plates and made room for the large envelope and laptop. He jammed a corner of toast in his mouth and tipped the envelope’s contents onto the table. Out tumbled a police report, a stack of A4 photographs, and a tiny USB drive.

  He shoveled a spoon full of fruit and muesli into his mouth and chewed as he looked at the photographs. He stopped chewing.

  The pile of blackened bodies had obviously been out in the open for a while. Faces were charred, skeletal jaws open in silent screams, and some of the limbs lost from the elbows or knees.

  “Jesu
s Christ.”

  He stared, everything around him vanishing as his mind took him into the crime scene – he could smell the greasy, hot, decomposing flesh; hear the manic buzz of the blowflies; and feel their sticky feet as they tried to land on his face after dancing on the dead. He lifted a rasher of bacon to his mouth and bit off the end – even though he had been ravenous, he couldn’t swallow it.

  He lifted the next picture. It showed an obscured man dressed in black shielding his face. He disregarded it and went on the next shot. It was of the physical damage – some of the bullet wounds in the center of each forehead – even in the child-sized corpse. That single image made Matt feel more anger than revulsion.

  There was a bullet-riddled dog and also a decapitation, with a notification on the picture describing the dead person as: extreme aged. A grandparent maybe? he thought. Thankfully, most were killed before the fire, but not all. One young woman had been burned alive.

  There was a summary report by a Field Agent R. Bromilow, with another few photographs clipped to it. He quickly read through it – the investigating officers thought that even though all personal valuables were gone, indicating robbery as a motive, the shot placement had been too clean and precise. It was more like an execution.

  A hit? Matt grimaced. Who hits an entire family, including a kid? He wondered.

  The next shots were marked: forensically retrieved from damaged cell chip. The first showed a figure approaching the group – a youngish man. He looked to be around 30, but somehow odd. Maybe it was his clothing; the old-style suit of heavy wool was square cut like out of an old movie.

  He plugged the drive into his MacBook and opened its directory. There were only a few files in there – one a video – he double clicked and it opened and started.

  There came a man’s voice and a jerking camera. It was the same guy from the photographs. Matt leaned forward to listen.

  The man’s voice was strong; he was well spoken and articulate. He said a name several times: Eleanor van Helling. He recognized it; she was the New York octogenarian and one of the richest women in North America. Tell her I found it, he said. The man’s final words were: tell her I love her.

  His grandmother? Matt stared now, transfixed. The film rolled on, and Matt felt the hairs on his neck rise. The man, the same guy in the old clothing, now seemed to shrink. His hair fell away and his face creased and shriveled. In a few minutes he was little more than a shrunken scarecrow.

  “What the hell?” He took another bite of toast.

  The man had held out a roll of paper or a scroll, and the next shot was of some of the writing on its yellowed surface. There was also a map, with the bottom half missing. Matt peered closely, taking a sip of coffee. His eyes widened as he recognised the writing. He spluttered, spitting and spilling the tepid liquid over his table.

  ‘No way.’ Replacing his cup, Matt paused the film and enlarged the writing, and then laughed softly. “You don’t see that every day.” He whispered.

  Matt noticed the female half of the power couple still staring at him, but now the hint of a small smile rested on her lips. What, I’m a spectator sport now? He sighed, dabbed his table with a napkin to mop up the spilled coffee, and turned back to the ancient script.

  The scientific part of his mind took over, cataloging, analyzing and organizing the language. The writing on the scroll was Chaldaic, one of the most ancient languages on earth, supposedly the tongue of Noah and Adam and Eve. He knew Chaldaic was an early variant of the Phoenician alphabet, and only contained 22 letters. It was a language used by the first Hebrews and was believed to have been spoken about 4000 to 5000 years ago when they were little more than a wandering sect.

  There were only a handful of people who could recognize it, let alone understand it. Chaldaic was a very difficult language to translate due to all the letters being consonants. It was almost like a code. He opened a fresh Word document on his MacBook.

  Matt enlarged the image of the scroll and improved the resolution. He wished he had the real thing, as he would have loved to smell its surface. If it was as old as it looked, it should have been written on beaten or brushed animal hide, as paper wasn’t even invented until 206 BCE in ancient China.

  “Well then, let’s just see what you have to say.” The more he looked at the image, the more the scroll looked like a rolled-up page that had been ripped from a book, as one side was ragged.

  He typed each word or concept as he drew it forth, sometimes deleting one and substituting another that seemed a better fit.

  “Those that – drink from the Ark’s fountain, or maybe, wellspring, will be absolved from death – for as long as – as long as they drink its life.” There was a name at the bottom: Noach – it was the ancient biblical name for Noah.

  Matt allowed a grin to spread across his face. “You gotta be shitting me – the Ark’s Wellspring – the Fountain of Youth – and all signed by Noah.” He laughed and looked around, expecting to see one of his buddies hiding behind a palm ready to spring out at him.

  All was quiet. He turned back to the image. Still, the thing about biblical stories was that they were all intertwined, like the branches of a great tree leading back to a single trunk.

  He pushed his laptop back a few inches and folded his arms as his mind worked. In his studies he’d come across quite a few stories of the Ark, its resting place, its strange cargo, and even the mysterious life-giving body of water that remained after the great flood seeped away.

  After all, the old boy was supposed to have been the very first to benefit from long life and was said to have lived for 900 years. Noah even had a son when he was 600, so he must have been doing something right. Matt knew that time had a way of magnifying feats and events, but he also knew that there must have been something that generated the longevity tales.

  The branches always lead back to a single trunk, Matt thought. He looked again at the images of the guy that had started out looking young, but by the end of the video looked a hundred years older.

  Just a few years ago this would have been something that gave him little more than a moment’s interest and a small smile. But he had seen things now; things that defied logic and sanity, and he knew that some myths and legends were real. He popped a rasher of crispy bacon into his mouth and chewed slowly. The tale of Noah’s wellspring, which became the genesis of many legends for the Fountain of Youth, had haunted imaginations forever.

  He lifted his coffee cup and sipped as his mind began to sift through the decades of information stored in his mind. The search for the Ark had been going on for too many centuries to count. Nearly 800 years ago, Marco Polo wrote of a strange mountain where the Ark rested within. Curiously, the reference to within, as opposed to upon, had intrigued scholars for centuries.

  In the 5th century BCE, Herodotus mentioned a wellspring containing a special kind of water in the ancient land of the Macrobians, which gave them exceptional longevity.

  And even before that, in stories of Alexander the Great’s life, it was said he and his servant crossed a “Land of Darkness” to find a restorative spring. The weird thing was, Alexander was purported to have found it, and after his death, his body was spirited away. Some say he only pretended to die, and in fact was taken to that secret place where he remains to this day.

  The early Crusaders searched for both it and the Ark, the Jesuits were asked by the Pope to hunt for it in South America, and even Adolf Hitler dispatched numerous search parties into the deserts of the Middle East when he turned to mysticism at the end of World War II.

  Just like with the Ark of the Covenant, or splinters from the cross of Jesus Christ, or even beams of the Ark, sacred relics were all highly prized by true believers, collectors, or even those who would seek to destroy the faith. Some new speck of information, and the race was on all over again.

  But this was something new, an ancient language, contemporaneous with the actual time of Noah and his sons, and its reference to the obscure Wellspring of Noah fascin
ated Matt.

  “How’s the bacon?” An unfamiliar, confident, feminine voice broke his train of thought. Matt’s head jerked up – it was the female half of the power couple. She pulled out a chair and sat down. The young man she was with also invited himself to the last spare chair.

  “You mind?” She smiled confidently.

  “Sure, as you’re already sitting.” Matt eased back in his chair, wary.

  She stuck out her hand. Her eyes were sharp as she studied him. “I’m Rachel.”

  “Matt.” He took her hand. “Rachel, as in Field Agent Rachel Bromilow.”

  The smile never wavered. “One and the same.” She nodded to her colleague. “Agent Samuel Anderson.”

  The man nodded. Though youthful, he looked as solid as a rock.

  Matt tapped the envelope. “You sent me this, then?”

  “No, my superiors did. They thought you could shed some light.” She craned her neck to look at his notes on the screen. “And I see you’re doing just that.”

  Matt frowned. “So, this isn’t classified? Does the FBI usually send out this sort of information just to anyone?”

  “No.” She remained relaxed. “But you’re not just anyone, are you, Professor Matthew Kearns? You’ve been vouched for as someone who knows how to keep a secret by people high up in the military.”

  He groaned. “Jack Hammerson, right?”

  She shrugged, and looked again at his notes. Her brows lifted. “So, it is a language then?”

  “Sure is; an ancient one.” Matt put a hand on the photographs, fanning them slightly. “I have a million questions.”

  “And we have a million more. So let’s trade.” She sat forward. “You first.”

  He shrugged. “The scroll, where did you, I mean he, get it? And where is it now?”

  “We don’t know.” She held his eyes. “The images were taken at Ragged Falls Park, in the Muskoka Region of Canada. A couple of families were holidaying up there. They took these pictures on a personal cell phone.” She tilted her head. “Much of the footage was unrecoverable and the physical document is now gone. We only have this image because we think that the killers thought the phone was either damaged beyond usefulness or couldn’t find it.”