Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

SIXTY-SIX

O’Brien watched the pickup truck, now about one hundred yards away. He didn’t know if the men in the truck spotted him and Jackson behind the parked Jeep. He quickly lifted the pistol out of the mud and threw it far into the underbrush. He grabbed Jackson by the back of the collar and pushed the muzzle of the Glock against his throat. “Like I said earlier, give me a reason.” He shoved Jackson to the creek, sloshing through ankle-deep water, guiding him behind a clump of cypress trees. “You make a sound and the raccoons will have your scrambled brains for breakfast.”

Jackson grinned. “All I’m gonna say is you’re a dead man. You just don’t know it.”

O’Brien kept the Glock buried next to Jackson’s carotid artery. Within seconds, the black pickup pulled around the Jeep, stopped next to the creek. The men got out. Both armed. One man with a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. The other holding a .44 magnum. They walked around the Jeep, cautiously opening both doors. The taller man looked down at the shoe and boot prints in the mud, mumbled something to his friend and started walking toward the creek.

O’Brien pulled Jackson out of the creek, pushing him along the embankment toward Jackson’s truck. When they got next to the truck, O’Brien said, “What size hat is that on your head?”

“What?”

“Hat size. Maybe seven and three-quarters. Give me your hat.”

“You’ll have to take it.”

“Okay.” O’Brien hit Jackson in his lower left jaw, the blow sounding like a carrot snapped in half. Jackson’s hat flew off his head, landing in the truck-bed. His eyes rolled, and he fell backwards. O’Brien quietly lowered the tailgate while holding Jackson in one arm. He rolled Jackson onto the truck-bed, found the keys in his jacket, picked up the Confederate slouch hat, and started the truck, heading back toward the men.

O’Brien sat behind the steering wheel, slouch hat pulled just over his eyebrows. He drove down the creek-bed knowing that in the molted soft light reflecting from the dark, tinted truck windows, it would be difficult for Jackson’s men to get a good look at who was driving. He spotted them standing on the creek bank, necks craned, confused faces.

Both men had their guns lowered, and the one with the pistol had holstered it. The taller of the two sported a full reddish beard. The shorter man, wearing a white tank top and shorts, had the body of a gym rat, steroid – sculpted muscles showing on tattooed, woolly arms. The man scratched his crotch and spat in the flowing water just when O’Brien pulled up and stopped.

As the truck window lowered, the men looked up into the barrel of the Glock. “Throw your guns in the creek!” O’Brien shouted. “Now!” Both men were dumbfounded. They tossed their weapons into the water. O’Brien slid out of the truck and said, “Now, since it’s a beautiful day for a hike, I want you lads to start walking. Wade through the stream. Don’t bother to stop to pick up your guns. They’ll need a thorough drying out and oiling. So let the waters bath them while you go pick blackberries down the muddy road.”

“Where’s Silas?” asked the man taller of the two men.

“Napping.”

“Napping?”

“He dozed off in the truck-bed.”

They glanced into the truck-bed, speechless. “Move!” O’Brien shouted. He’ll just have a slight headache when he wakes up.”

The men waded across the creek, cursing under their breaths, swearing to get even. O’Brien watched them walk more than fifty yards, beyond a bend in the road, out of sight. He knew they’d circle back a different way. He took the hat off his head and tossed it in the truck-bed. One of Jackson’s hands was partially open, resting on his chest. O’Brien looked at the hand, the long fingernails, the large crescent moons at the base of the thumb and each finger. O’Brien had only seen that distinctive anomaly on one other man.

He ran to his Jeep, got inside and spun tires leaving the scene. He looked into his review mirror and saw the two men wading back across the creek. O’Brien dialed Gus Louden’s number. He answered after the seventh ring and said, “Sean, it’s good to hear from you. Did you locate the painting?”

“No, but I found your son.”

There was a long silence. O’Brien could hear Louden breathing harder. A slight rasp in his vocal cords. He said, “Please, tell me more.”

“No. You’re going to tell me more. Get in your car and drive nonstop back to the marina. Meet me at the Ponce Lighthouse at midnight. Come alone.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

Cory Nelson waited for nightfall before stepping out of his motel room into the parking lot. A light rain fell, the dark wet asphalt reflecting a sheen of red and blue neon across the chemical green stains of radiator coolant and motor oil. He’d parked his Buick in one corner of the lot, away from the road traffic, passersby, hookers, and people coming and going in the motel. He looked around the lot, checked the time on his watch, opened the car door and got behind the wheel. He locked the doors.

Nelson turned the key in the ignition when he felt the Buick shift slightly, as if a person had bumped into the side of the car. When he looked into the side-view mirror, he sensed the hint of movement – something like a puff of air hitting his hair.

Someone in the backseat.

The garrote was around his neck. Someone pulling hard. No! The piano wire buried deep into Nelson’s flesh. He tried to get his fingers under the wire. He used one fist to flail at the attacker in the rear seat. The wire tightened. Nelson kicked the floorboard, gurgling inhuman sounds. Eyes bulging. Unable to draw air into his burning lungs. He thrashed with all his strength. The attacker was ruthless. The wire cutting into Nelson’s trachea. His carotid artery enlarged to the size of his small finger.

The attacker whispered. “You’re a liability. You will die first. Your insurance policy will go next.” He tightened the garrote, the wire tearing through the carotid artery, blood spraying across the dashboard.

Nelson thrashed, losing strength, looking into the rearview mirror. He felt warmth in his crotch, the odor of urine mixing with the coppery smell of blood. He could only see the man’s eyes. Emerald green eyes. Hard eyes that opened wider, pleased, as the kill became imminent. The man said, “I have the Civil War contract, and now I will have the diamond.”

Nelson stopped fighting. He felt like he was far away. He could hear his own heart beat faster. Faster. Remaining blood flowing out of his severed neck, a hand reaching into his coat pocket. Taking out the diamond. The whispered voice said, “I told you it was cursed. You kept it too long.”

Nelson’s head fell back against the car’s headrest. He stared at the eyes in the rearview mirror, heard the car door open and close, the mirror now reflecting the faraway headlights from the cars moving in the distance – tiny lights like small diamonds in the sky, stars twinkling in the darkest night Cory Nelson had ever seen.

SIXTY-EIGHT

O’Brien walked from the marina to Ponce Lighthouse. He stood in the dark near the base of the lighthouse, the breakers rolling beyond high sandy dunes covered in sea oats and hibiscus. The beam of circling light raked across the murky back of the Atlantic Ocean. He glanced up to the top of the lighthouse, a curved moon perched high in the inky sky. And he listened for the sound of an approaching car.

Gus Louden was more than twenty minutes late.

Who was Silas Jackson? Antisocial. Delusional. A psychopath. Maybe he’d keep his distance from Kim. Maybe not. Was he Louden’s son? Louden didn’t deny it. If so, would the discovery of the painting mean something beyond proving Gus Louden’s great, great grandfather died in battle? If Jackson stole the painting from the film set, was it hanging somewhere in his house?

O’Brien might not know who Silas Jackson was, but he did know Jackson didn’t murder Jack Jordan. The proof was in the slow-motion video. Did Cory Nelson steal the diamond from Jack Jordan after he shot and killed him? All the attention on the film set would have been focused on where Jordan fell to the ground, giving Nelson time and opportunity to break into Jordan’s van. But there was no evidence of a break-in. Why?

Headlights. Moving over the tops of Australian pines bordering the road. A few seconds later, a car turned onto the lot, the driver parking under a security light pole. When he opened the car door, O’Brien could see there were no other passengers visible. Was Jackson crouched in the backseat, finger on a trigger? Gus Louden stepped outside his car, locking the door. He stood near the streetlamp, looking. Waiting. A slight mist drifted under the light. O’Brien approached, keeping Louden between himself and the car.

Louden said, “Sorry, I’m running late. There’s evening road construction south of Jacksonville.

O’Brien said nothing, stepping to within four feet of Louden. “Is Silas Jackson your son?”

“Yes. He hasn’t communicated with his family in seven years. Where is he?”

“Why the charade with the painting? Why didn’t you just hire a PI who specializes in missing persons?”

“I did hire you to find the painting. I didn’t expect you to find Silas, too. I’d hoped that you might, but I wasn’t counting on it. How did you know he is my son?”

“Hold both of your hands out, palms down.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Lowden slowly extended his arms, turning his palms down. O’Brien could see the dime-sized age spots on the back of Louden’s hands. And he could see the fingernails.

“You and your son share unique physical characteristics. Your hands are much the same. And the cuticles on your fingernails look like half-moons.”

“Where’d you develop your powers of observation, or were you born with the gift?” He lowered his arms.

“Listen to me, Gus. My patience is running thin with you. Your son is stalking a woman I care about. He had a loud argument with Jack Jordan, the man murdered on the film set. And two other people that were connected to a Civil War document that was stolen are dead. Silas Jackson, if that’s his real name, is linked to this. He lives in an unreal world of the 1860s. You tell me what the deal is between you two and why you hired me to find the painting.”

“First, I’m deeply sorry that you think I deceived you. That wasn’t my intention. His real name is Silas. He goes by the last name Jackson because of his admiration for Confederate General Stonewall Jackson. When Silas was a child, no more than four or five, he saw an old photo of my great, great grandfather – the man who was married to the woman in the painting. Silas heard stories about Henry Hopkins, the good and the bad. Somehow, the bad made a strong and lasting impression on him. He wanted to prove his relative was not a coward, but there was no real proof. Silas began studying the Civil War. But he didn’t stop there. He studied all things military. The great armies and the men who led them – Charlemagne, Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, and others.”

“What’s the game? You hire me to find a lost painting. But you’re really looking for a lost son. Answer my question.”

“Please…I’m trying to give you information so you’ll know what you’re up against.”

“Up against? I’m only in this position because I agreed to help you.”

“And I thank you. Silas has been institutionalized more than once. He’s had the care, or at least the clinical evaluation of top psychologists. He never smiled much as a child. All the experts tell me he has brilliant mind, but a mind that’s without a conscience. He believes he’s some kind of warrior, the kind that made up one of the most ferocious fighters in the world – the Spartans. One story that he embodied was that of a Spartan named Aristodemus. He was a warrior who was falsely labeled a coward. But in the end, he proved to be one of the most brave and brutal fighters in the history of Sparta. I think, somewhere in Silas’ mind, he believes his ancestor, Henry Hopkins was similar to Aristodemus – a soldier labeled as a coward when in reality he was the exact opposite.”

“Reality is an abstract world for your son.”

“Where is he?”

“Ocala National Forest. That’s where I left him. I left him with a warning to leave my friend alone. He met her on a film set and has some fantasy that she’s the woman in the painting you hired me to find. Why would he have those fantasies?”

“He’s always had an unrealistic expectation about finding the perfect southern lady – refined, educated, beautiful, perhaps a touch of nobility in her lineage. Although, I’m sure he never saw that painting as a child, and would have no idea the woman in the painting was related to him – she certainly portrayed the image of his make-believe world. As a teenager, he rarely had a girlfriend for more than a few days. Later, when he did find a woman that seemed to tolerate his fictional idea, he beat her. She got a restraining order, but Silas can’t be restrained. Her family up and moved. It was so fast it was as if they were in a witness relocation program.”

“Why did you think if I found the painting I might find Silas?”

“Because of his fascination with Civil War things. As a re-enactor, I knew he read all the Civil War magazines and blogs. If you found the painting, I was going to take a picture of it, write an historical description. Make it public, especially in the places he might look. This would prove that his ancestor, Henry Hopkins, wasn’t a coward, but rather a soldier who died a noble death in combat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the place I harbor hope, I wanted to see if that would release the pressure valve on Silas’ anger, meaning any burden of proof about his ancestor was no longer his to show. You found my son. Even though you weren’t looking for him. And I thank you for that. If you want to walk away from trying to track down the painting, I understand.”

O’Brien said nothing, looking up in the sky as a bat flew through the moonlight.

Louden said, “I had heard rumors that Silas was running some clandestine dissident paramilitary outfit. I know my son and what he’s capable of doing – of destroying. Unless he’s contained with medication or locked away, I’m afraid he will do something that could hurt a lot of people – a modern day Picket’s charge against the government. If the painting is found, that alone might be enough to curb his drive, his personal need for proving he isn’t a coward. Will you continue searching for the painting? I’m deeply sorry if you believe I deceived you. It wasn’t my intention.” O’Brien could see Louden’s eyes watering.

“I made a commitment to find it for you. But you need to know this: the unearthing of the painting could lead to the burial of your son. Is that something you want to risk?”

“Sometimes we have to make unbearable choices in life. This is one of those times.”

“I have an idea where the painting might be?”

“Where?”

“At this point, the less you know, the better. If I’m right, you will know.” O’Brien turned and left the lighthouse parking lot, left the tearful old man with a lost son fighting a lost cause and inner demons. O’Brien walked north on the beach, the breakers crashing on the hard sand, an angry surf frothing in the milky glow of the moon, the moving beam from the lighthouse devoured by a vast black sea.

SIXTY-NINE

O’Brien wanted to stop by Dave’s boat, Gibraltar, pick up Max and give Dave an update. But not now. He needed someplace quiet to make a call, and he needed to do it before anything else happened. He walked past Nick’s boat, St. Michael, the laughter of a woman and Greek music coming from the salon. Nicks virility and life restored post Malina. O’Brien boarded Jupiter, the bow and stern lines creaking against the gentle pull of the rising tide. He climbed the steps up to the bridge, unzipped the isinglass windows and sat in the captain’s chair.

A calm breeze across the marina carried the scent of the sea – briny, mixed with garlic shrimp and smoldering charcoal. He called Laura Jordan and asked, “Was Jack’s van a production van that he used for his documentary work or more on a minivan for the family?”

“It was his production van for hauling gear and his film crew. Why?”

“If Cory was his partner, would he have had a key to the van?”

“Now that you mention it, I think he did have the extra key.”

“And he probably knew where Jack could or would hide the diamond in the van.”

“Possibly. Jack hid it in a concealed slot under the center console. And, the only reason he had it with him that day was because he had an appointment with a gemologist after the shoot to see if the diamond was real.”

“That’s a tough place to find for any thief to find. But easy if you know where to look. Maybe Nelson knew where to look because Jack shared the information with him. Even if he didn’t, Nelson probably was aware that Jack had a meeting with the gemologist and wouldn’t be able to retrieve the diamond from the safety deposit box in time to make the scheduled appointment. Therefore, if Jack had returned to the van and found the diamond gone, Cory Nelson would be the logical suspect. That fact is one more reason for Nelson to kill him.”

“One more? What other reason did he have?”

“You, Laura.”

“Me?”

“Nelson wanted you. He played the game well. Feigned the concerned ‘best friend’ and partner of your husband, the ‘Uncle Jack’ role with Paula, when all along he had you in his toxic sights, too.”

“Do you know if the police have arrested him?”

“No, but I’ll find out and let you know.”

“I feel so bad that Ike Kirby’s life was taken over this…and the other man who I didn’t know. And the horrific irony is that I thought I really knew Cory. We trusted him with everything, even with a spare key to our home and Jack’s van.”

O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the drone of a shrimp boat’s diesel engines, as the boat made its way up the channel in the Halifax River from Ponce Inlet, to subside. He thought about what Silas Jackson had said when he confronted him. “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk.”

“Sean, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I thought a Civil War re-enactor named Silas Jackson may have been the person who killed Jack. Now I know it was Cory Nelson. Because Nelson had the key to your home and the alarm code, he could have searched your house for the document any time you weren’t there. If he couldn’t find it…that could have been the only reason he’d enter your place in the dead of night.”

“But I’d given the document to Professor Kirby to evaluate.”

“Exactly. And not long after that, the killer was in Ike’s room. When the perp left, the contract went with him. I don’t think Nelson was the man standing in the dark in your bedroom holding Paula and threatening your lives. I don’t believe it was the re-enactor, Silas Jackson either. It was somebody else…someone who covers his tracks well.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’s in a position to blackmail the British Prime Minister and possibly the Royal Family. Whoever he is…he’s got the old document. He may have the diamond, too. If not, he’s probably tracking down the person who does have it. If that person is Cory Nelson, the only thing that may save his life is police finding him before the killer does. If Nelson and this guy schemed to work some sort of deal as partners, maybe police will get lucky and catch them both. But if the executioner, the one who broke into your home in twenty-nine seconds, killed Ike and the clerk just to get the contract, imagine what he might do.”

“This…this evil, it really began when Jack and I bought the painting and old magazines in that antique store. Everything, over a period of a few months, spiraled down from there. I can’t fully grasp what’s happened…and what even frightens me more is what might occur before it ends. You must be very careful, Sean. I had an awful dream, a nightmare and you were in it.”

“Do you have Jack’s mobile phone?”

“Yes.”

“Go back through it. Go to the date Jack found the diamond. From that day and the next two days look closely at the calls made and received.”

“The police have pulled Jack’s phone records and mine. I don’t think they found anything that jumps out.”

“Sometimes it’s the thing that doesn’t jump out. Police often only look for patterns and repetitive calls. Sometimes it’s the single one or two that get through the net.”

“Am I looking for anything specific?”

“Go through the numbers from the date Jack found the diamond through the next forty-eight hours after that. Look for phone numbers with the same area code but the send and receive digits in the full phone numbers may be different. Call me when you have it. Okay?”

“Yes, of course. Sean, what are you looking for?”

“A needle in a haystack…but the haystack is getting smaller.”