Three Keys to Murder Read online

  THREE KEYS TO MURDER

  Gary Williams

  and Vicky Knerly

  THE NOVELS OF GARY WILLIAMS

  & VICKY KNERLY

  Death in the Beginning (2011)

  Three Keys to Murder (2012)

  Coming September 2012:

  Indisputable Proof

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Gary Williams and Vicky Knerly

  Previously published by Suspense Magazine

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonEncore are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781477870549

  This title was previously published by Suspense Magazine; this version has been reproduced from Suspense Magazine archive files.

  PRAISE FOR

  “THREE KEYS TO MURDER”

  “ “Three Keys to Murder” is a riveting roller coaster ride, complete with non-stop action, intriguing characters, and an amazing plotline. I love a good murder mystery, and “Three Keys to Murder” does not disappoint! Fawn is an extremely smart, strong female lead, and piecing together the mystery alongside her and her trusty sidekick Bailey was an intense experience that, I think, will be even more fun the second time around; I already can’t wait to read this novel again using the knowledge I now have.

  “Three Keys to Murder,” with its perfect flow and explanations behind each hidden artifact and the puzzle pieces, reminded me very much so of how Dan Brown’s “The Da Vinci Code” flowed. The storylines between these two novels are not similar in any way, but the sheer writing genius is evident in both. Up until now, I’ve always thought that “The Da Vinci Code” had the perfect flow for a murder mystery novel, sending the lead character on a quest to connect history with artifacts, but in retrospect, I think “Three Keys to Murder” might just top “The Da Vinci Code.” Thus, if you’re a lover of “The Da Vinci Code,” then Williams’ and Knerly’s novel is a must read! Five stars.”

  – Shana Benedict of A Book Vacation Reviews

  PRAISE FOR

  “DEATH IN THE BEGINNING”

  “Science, spirituality and the supernatural collide in this break-out debut thriller, with an action-packed storyline so tightly woven, you won’t be able to catch your breath until the very end. It’s a delicious, twisting journey unlike any I have read.”

  – CK Webb, co-author of “Collecting Innocents”

  DEDICATIONS

  Gary dedicates this book to his parents, Cecil and Betsy Williams. Sixty-five years of marriage and still going strong.

  Vicky dedicates this book to her parents, Garry and Barbara Wood. Without them, she is nothing.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Vicky would like to thank her family and friends for their continuing support and encouragement.

  As always, Gary would like to thank his family—his wife, Jackie, and his children, Josh, Jeff and Kristin—for their ongoing support.

  The authors would also like to commend the following people for their efforts with this book: Janice Lake, Maryanne Pease, Susan Parker, Les Williams, Sonya Guess Ashton, Mille & Mark Sorger, Dalerie Fisher, Tracy Frost-Ferguson, and Tony & Margie Hawkes. We value your feedback, and we thank you.

  Also, a big thanks to our publicist, Diane Buckner, for everything she does.

  Lastly, we would like to thank all the readers. It is because of you that we do what we do. We hope you enjoy this story and follow us on future adventures.

  He stands atop the bluff,

  Squinting in the sun.

  With leathered skin and steely eyes,

  His life has just begun.

  The wind it is his life force,

  Keeping his soul refreshed.

  The ground his eternal mother,

  Where his ancestors rest.

  The river is his freedom,

  Flowing to the sea.

  He views the Earth around him,

  A part he soon will be.

  His dreams are not of streets of gold,

  His wants aligned with nature.

  No fiery hell awaits this man,

  As he languishes in their capture.

  The White Men will never understand,

  The Earth cannot be owned.

  For this land is his life,

  The only life he has known.

  Sonya Guess Ashton

  PROLOGUE

  May 23, 2012. 8:34 a.m. Gulf of Mexico, six miles due west of Cedar Key, Florida.

  Juan Velarde Cortez stood on the bow of his Sea Ray staring into the blue-green water of the Gulf. It was a bright May morning as the sun lifted off the horizon. Salt air filled his lungs. The only respite from the humidity was a gentle wind coming from the west, which helped cool his simmering skin.

  A shrimp trawler had passed by 20 minutes ago, accompanied by the incessant squawking of seagulls hovering above the vessel; otherwise, the gently bounding terrain was barren, save for the occasional dolphin fin slicing the surface.

  Cortez, who had turned 62 just two days before, stood stoically, his tanned skin soaking up the sun as the breeze pushed through his short, t
hinning gray hair. Snow-white stubble crowded his unkempt, pockmarked face. In his younger years, he had the physique of an athlete with sinewy limbs spawned from years of skin diving, but the dogged pursuit of his quest had taken its toll on him physically and mentally. Weary and drained, he was running out of resolve to continue.

  Then yesterday, hope returned.

  With no one in sight, Juan could now proceed. His target lay less than three dozen feet below. With guarded eagerness, he adjusted his scuba gear, donned the snug-fitting dive mask, and tested the regulator, air pressure, and depth gauge on his arm. Then he pivoted, taking a seat on the low rail with his back to the water, and put on swim fins. Content that all was ready, he took a long breath then easily rocked back into the water, slipping beneath the surface.

  The bubbles trailed away, and the watery world opened around him. The temperature was comfortable. Off-white sunlight angled down from the surface, cascading laser-like streaks, dissipating in the depths as a foggy blue haze.

  Cortez swam in place, regulating his breathing and ensuring the scuba equipment was working properly. He purposely held his gaze up, watching the rippling, sun-drenched surface from underneath, allowing his mind a moment to calm.

  This site held such promise, more so than any he had found in years. If it turned out to be nothing, the disappointment would be crushing.

  Cortez discovered the anomaly yesterday, at the end of another long day surveying the seafloor from his vessel. The logical explanation was that it was one of the countless sandbars resulting from the Gulf of Mexico’s shallow rim, which extends hundreds of miles off Florida’s west coast. He could not account for the peculiarities of this formation, though. It was shaped as a large rectangular box, approximately 24 feet long and nine feet wide, rising six feet from the level seabed. The depth finder confirmed its solid composition as well as its perfect symmetry. It was also on a seabed that extended for many miles without aberrations or irregularities. The mere fact that anything was here meant it was highly unusual.

  It was this thought that excited Cortez when he logged the precise longitude and latitude as light faded the day before.

  Now, as he swam in place, his mind reeled, exuberance commingling with caution at what lay below him. With a silent prayer, Cortez closed his eyes, and, after a long moment, he turned and swam downward.

  The large object quickly came into view. It was immediately evident the structure was manmade. His pulse quickened.

  Curiously, the top of the large box-shaped object was multi-colored, interspersed on a dark brown surface. Closer examination revealed the hues were a result of colorful shell fragments.

  Confused, he swam to one end. Unlike the top, the sides were dark. He looked down and noticed they slipped into the sand at the base. Swimming in place, he now saw that the broken pieces of seashells on top were embedded in some thick, uneven substance.

  Cortez stretched a bare hand forward, intent on touching the substance. Then he thought better of it. He reached to his leg and unsheathed a dive knife. Using the tip, he picked through the clutch of shell shards, stabbing the brown substance.

  The putty-like material moved easily, clinging to the knife. He lifted the point of the blade to examine it. The coloration of the dark substance was more black than brown, its true color masked by the diffused sunlight.

  Cortez removed a plastic bag from his dive belt and scraped the material into it. He would examine the substance on shore. Whatever it was, its soft state explained the presence of the colorful shell fragments as sea creatures—hermit crabs, blue crabs, snails, and other crustaceans—stuck to it like flypaper over time, but he wondered why it was only on the top.

  Cortez swam to the side of the structure and rapped it with his knuckles. His excitement swelled as he realized it was metallic.

  Two lines from the message he had found so long ago echoed in his mind: Valuable shipment lost. Zaile not going home in its large, iron box.

  After all these years of searching, after all the heartache and disappointment, after all the sarcastic remarks about his “treasure hunting,” it seemed almost impossible that he might finally have found it.

  He ran his hand across the side of the container. The surface was solid, unyielding.

  Then his heart sank. It was too pristine. After nearly two centuries, it should be corroded; caked in rust.

  It was possible the structure had been protected by sand until recently. If it had been covered, with the ferocious influx of hurricanes plaguing states on the Gulf of Mexico in the past ten years combined with its proximity in relatively shallow water, it could have been recently exposed by wave action. In fact, the eye of Hurricane Frances in 2004 had literally rolled right over the very spot Cortez was now diving.

  Cortez quickly swam along the lengthwise side of the massive container. To his relief, he stopped when he spotted frosty folds of copper and brown. It was not substantial, but it was enough erosion to prove the iron container had been in the water for some time. A tap with the butt of his knife proved the wall was still holding firm.

  Cortez felt his enthusiasm return. He continued to swim the length, feeling the sidewall with his hand as he went. He reached the far end, turned the corner, and again looked at the glittering top. The shell fragments shimmered back at him.

  He circled the corner and swam along the last, lengthwise wall. Here he found more rust slowly eating into the structure, but here, too, the iron held strong.

  Cortez settled on the seafloor so as not to kick up the loose silt. He ran his fingers across an uneven section of the side where two distinct pieces joined. Following the groove downward, he traced the line until he arrived at the seafloor. He backtracked, moving his hand upward until the groove turned right 90 degrees, running across at eye level. After another 90-degree angle, it fell straight down, paralleling the outline on the other side until he again came to the seafloor. Realizing he had no way of knowing how deep into the seabed the iron structure sank, he slowly wiggled his fingers through the silt, keeping contact with the side wall. He went eight inches down without gaining an edge and stopped, fearful of disturbing the sediment. The last thing he needed was a plume of sand and silt choking his view.

  He placed his fingers at the middle of the grooved outline and found a small, recessed cutout. He leaned closer, eyeing the niche. Two intersecting slots formed a plus sign. Above it, an engraved emblem was etched into the iron faceplate depicting the sea, ship under sail, eagle, and anchor: the seal of the U.S. Navy. From his research, Cortez knew the slight variation of the eagle’s position meant the insignia was pre-1850.

  He could barely contain his excitement. His dream for the last four decades was within reach.

  Fumbling, he stuck his hand into the small bag attached to his belt. It would be the first time in all the years diving that he had removed the key from the pouch. He fished it out, nearly dropping it in the process. The thought of it slipping into the soft sand and being forever lost made him cringe.

  Take a breath, Juan. Slow down.

  He clutched the key tightly and brought it to the plus-shaped slot in the sidewall. Nervously, he inserted it. Barely in, the key abruptly stopped. He pushed with ever-increasing force, but it was no use. He withdrew the key and tried again, to no avail. The key did not fit. He felt a wave of disappointment. He closed his eyes as his gut tightened into a knot.

  He took out a small flashlight and examined the keyhole closely. A piece of seashell had wedged inside the vertical slot. He placed the key back in its bag and unsheathed his knife. Guided by the light, he angled the sharp point of the dive knife into the slot and was able to stab the shell fragment. As he tried to withdraw it, it brushed the edge and fell back, tumbling deeper inside the keyhole.

  With determination, he went after the shell piece again. To his chagrin, it was out of reach.

  Frustration, anger, and exhaustion blended into a
cacophony of emotions that nearly overwhelmed him. In a fit of rage, he laid the knife on top of the iron container and retrieved the key. Disregarding common sense, he drove the key into the slot, grinding it with force. To his utter amazement, he felt the shell fragment give, and the key fell all the way into the slot. With a gentle turn, Cortez felt the wildly satisfying give of the internal lock. The door opened pneumatically, sliding to the left as it retracted outside the side wall. The key, still embedded in the keyhole, pulled from his fingers, sliding away with the door.

  Surprised, Cortez jerked backward against the water, roiling the sand as he shuffled. The wall of cloudy silt sprang forth like a creature enveloping its prey. The dark opening of the iron container evaporated in a storm of gray. It was everywhere, closing in on him, attenuating his view.

  With his heart racing, he froze, waiting for the silt to die down. An eternity passed before he could make out the faint outline of the doorway again, with darkness beyond. He shined the light inside, bringing the contents into muddled focus. A thick beam of iron lay angled just inside the doorway.

  That was not what drew his attention, though. It was what he saw behind the beam that left Cortez in absolute dismay.

  Without warning, the iron door began to slide shut. Instinctively, Cortez dropped the flashlight and thrust his right arm inside. He tried to push against the door with his other hand to stop it. When this had no effect, he shoved his right foot inside. The door continued to close, pinning his right foot and right arm with crushing force. In a panic, Cortez freed his foot by pulling it out of the fin. The door clamped down harder on his arm, pinioning it at the elbow.

  He pulled with all his might. There was absolutely no give. To his horror, the pressure on his arm increased relentlessly. The force felt otherworldly.