Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

EIGHTY-TWO

It was the feel of something across her mouth that awakened Kim. Something wet, cold and rough. She slowly opened her eyes. Her right eye was swollen, hard to open. The image fuzzy through the eye. She blinked. Hoping to blink away a nightmare before her. She was in a dimly lit room, candles on a dresser. An oil lamp on an end table. It was still dark outside, moonlight coming through the one window.

Silas Jackson sat on the side of a bed using a washcloth to dab her face. Used it to wash away the dried blood. The crusty congealed blood around Kim’s mouth and severely swollen eye. She used her tongue to feel for the tooth. Gone. A fleshy hole left behind. She wanted to push him away. Kim couldn’t move her arms. She looked to her right and then left. Metal bands clamped on her wrists. The wrist bands secured to chains, the chains locked on the bedposts. He’s done the same with her legs. Pulled them apart, wide, held in place by short chains secured to posts at the foot of the bed.

Kim realized she was nude. She was naked under a sheet turned a pale yellow from oily hair, engine grease, dried sweat and grime. She shuddered. Opened her good eye and said, “Why are you doing this?”

Jackson stopped cleaning her, his dark bloodshot eyes cutting up to her face. “I told you why. I have no choice. You don’t either. The rest weren’t the woman we’ve been looking for – you’re the one to birth a new leader to take back the county.”

“The rest? You’re crazy! Let me go, and I promise you no one will ever know.”

“I told you I got no say in the matter.” He stood, stepped to the window and looked out at the moon over the palms and cypress trees. Then he turned back to her, running the tip of his index finger slowly down her chained right arm. “Miss, Kim, this goes all the way back to Confederate General Albert Pike. He was the visionary. Wise beyond his time. He predicted three world wars. He was a thirty-third degree Freemason who spoke a dozen languages. Harvard educated. He wore Lucifer’s bracelet. General Pike was the architect of prophecy, a new order of the way society would be governed. You can fulfill General Pike’s foretelling.”

“They’ll lock you up and throw away the damn keys.”

“I ‘spect they’ll be coming for me soon. My death will be the sacrifice I’m willing to take. I’m bettin’ the seed will take, and you, a fine Catholic girl, will let it be.”

“Oh my God…you’ve raped me. You filthy bastard!”

“No! I wouldn’t rape you. No need. I got you hogtied to the bedposts. I can take my time. You won’t be able to get up and use gravity to dislodge the sperm on its predestined journey to plant the seed of a new order.”

Kim closed her good eye, made a silent prayer, and fought the bile rising in her throat.

EIGHTY-THREE

O’Brien could see the fire of cannonball explosions on the horizon in the night sky. Hear the booms echoing across the river. The sounds of guns blazing. The gruesome whizzing and tearing noise of Minié balls blowing through the chests of Union and Confederate soldiers. They were on the river, fighting under the cover of darkness, under the glow of starlight.

Gunboats shooting at other patrol boats. Men jumping from burning vessels. The smells of scorched hair and burning skin mixed with burnt gunpowder. Steamers hit by floating mines that took off the entire bow or stern. The deafening, mournful cries of dying men.

He saw a young Confederate soldier fall in battle on a field, smoke rising, a union soldier, gut shot, lying in the mud near him. The Confederate soldier strained with what little strength he had left to pull a photograph out of his rucksack. He held the photograph in his bloodied hand, the young man looking at the image of the woman in the photograph. Tears welled in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks and into the blood pooling near his chest. He tried hard to whisper his love for the woman, life fading from his broken and bloodied body, the photo falling into the dark mud, a cannon firing in the distance.

Then it was silent and the moon rose over a mountaintop and O’Brien was alone on a ravine in Afghanistan, the moonlight bright against the mountainous landscape. He heard the whirl of chopper blades in the distance, over the hills.

Were they finally coming for me?

He crouched berween two large boulders and waited, glanced at a small village down the hill in the valley, the scent of goat and lamb meat cooking in the night air.

And then they appeared.

On the crest of the hill. Four silhouettes. Afghan warlords. The Taliban. The bastards never stop hunting, O’Brien thought. If he was damn lucky, he may get off three shots. Take three out. The fourth might run. But they never run away. They keep advancing. He looked into the rifle scope. One of the men held a small flashlight, signaling someone on a hill a half-mile away.

O’Brien sighted through the scope – a dead bead on the man with the mirror.

And then the light dissolved into an old oil lamp. It was held by a young woman. O’Brien wanted to put his rifle down. But it was gone. As if he’d never held it. The soft warm light reflected from the woman’s beautiful face. She was Angelina Hopkins. She smiled and gestured for O’Brien to follow her. He slugged out of the river mud up onto the soft grass and verdant ferns.

She stood at the top of the bluff, the breeze off the river flowing through her hair, her white dress moving slightly. O’Brien watched her, approaching slowly. “I’m very sorry about the loss of your husband. They found your picture in the mud…on a battlefield. I know he died a heroic soldier who very much wanted to return to you.”

She said nothing, her eyes studying the river. O’Brien asked, “Where’s Joe Billie? Have you seen him?”

She was silent, turning to O’Brien and reaching out. She touched his shoulder, touched it in the exact spot where the syringe needle had penetrated. She smiled, looking directly into O’Brien’s eyes. Her face slowly began to change. And then he was looking into Kim’s eyes.

“Sean, it’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

“Kim…I’ll be there soon. Do you hear me? Soon.”

There was the sound of a horse whinny, the snorting and the galloping of hooves. O’Brien turned as a man wearing a Confederate uniform rode a horse in from the dark forest. When O’Brien looked back at Kim, she was gone. The lamp was by itself, flickering on the top of the bluff next to an oak tree. O’Brien turned towards the soldier.

It was the same re-enactor he’d seen in the cemetery. The same man who’d left a Confederate rose on a gravestone. He was still in an offer’s uniform. Silver beard. Slouch hat pulled over one gray eyebrow.

He got off his horse, tied the reins to a small pine, and walked over to O’Brien. The old soldier’s eyes were ice blue. He had a slender scar across his left cheek. Face hard as leather exposed to sun and rain. He said, “Are you a deserter, son.”

O’Brien stared at him. “The damn movie wrapped. You can drop the Confederate act.”

“Act? What I fight for is no act. It’s not for the North or the South. It is for the nation.”

“What?”

“It’s sacred and worth fighting for. The rights and guarantees of the American Constitution are being challenged, as is a way of life ensured by the words on that very highest document.”

O’Brien’s eyes burned. He felt like he was swallowing something with the bitter taste of pine sap and burnt weeds. Maybe tobacco. He looked into the timeworn soldier’s eyes. “It’s great how you stay in character. I’m about 160 years too late for your war. I’ve had to fight enough of my own.”

The man wiped his brow with a gnarled hand. “This Godforsaken war is really about state’s rights, which is a coveted tenet of the Constitution. Some members of Congress, those from a few northern states, want to pass laws of economic restrictions – to force southern states to sell cotton to only specific factories in particular states. Telling us we can’t sell to whomever the hell we wish to sell to – including England. So, how in God’s name can a union be preserved when one faction of that union wants to dictate economic forces to another?”

“Well done. If that’s part of the script for Black River, you’ve got it down. You could be in the running for an Academy Award.”

The man pulled out a silver pocket watch, opened it, and looked at the time. O’Brien caught a glimpse of a woman’s image on the inside of the watch. He said, “She’s a lovely lady.”

“She was my wife, Matilda. No finer woman has ever lived. Are you married?”

O’Brien thought of Kim. “No.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

“I best be getting back, Mr. O’Brien.” He climbed up in the saddle. “I do not mean to be forward, but you have the look.”

“What look?”

“The one I have seen in the faces of some men long after the cannons stopped firing. After those times when the faces of men we slaughtered haunt our dreams.”

“Is that line in the script?”

“Mr. O’Brien, answer this for me. If you had one final day to live, could you bear the weight of not having to prove anything to anyone? Would that burden finally be unchained?”

“I have nothing to prove.”

“War, Mr. O’Brien, in the heat of battle, time stands still for a moment. The threat of imminent death changes a man’s perception. The beauty of life ought to change a person’s outlook, too. One of nature’s masterpieces is a rainbow. It’s amazing how light through droplets of water can make things visible when they never were. Sometimes you’ll see the arc of a rainbow from one point on the horizon to another. But did you know it makes a full circle? Just like planets swirling around the sun. We’re all part of the unseen web. You know, even a spider’s web takes on a new look when a sunrise turns dew drops into a strand of pearls.”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “Who are you?”

He paused, tipped his hat and said, “I best be on my way. Remember, son, time itself won’t leave you desolate. It’ll be with you until the end of your life. It’s what you do with the time you’ve been given.”

He turned his horse, rode toward palms and live oaks and slipped into the dark forest.

EIGHTY-FOUR

O’Brien awoke in a cold sweat. His shirt soaked. A chemical odor clinging to his damp skin. All he could see was a small fire. Red rocks glowing in a pile five feet from where he was lying, the stench of burning weeds and cedar. There was something all around him. He reached out and touched a canvas fabric. A tent. He looked up. Between the trails of smoke from the hot rocks, he could see starlight coming through a hole in the top of the tent. O’Brien tried to sit.

“You might want to take it easy.” Joe Billie’s voice was almost a whisper.

“Joe,” O’Brien squinted, barely making out Billie’s features on the other side of the fire pit. “You pulled me out of the river.”

“Somebody had to do it.” Billie grinned and leaned forward. “I don’t know for sure what was in your system. But I did my best to remove the demons. You had visitors.”

“Where are we?”

“On the bluff overlooking the river. It’s where you and I came a few weeks ago. I had this tent in my canoe. When I saw what shape you were in, I quickly built a sweat lodge. The heat and herbs you inhaled through the steam from the rocks helped. You were having some vivid hallucinations.”

“They seemed beyond hallucinations. I followed a light to come to shore. It’s all I could see through the mist. The woman, Angelina, she was holding the lamp, signaling me to safety out of the river. I met a Confederate officer on horseback. He’s the same guy I saw at the cemetery near the old planation where the movie was shooting.”

“So the spirits chose to reveal themselves. You’re lucky, Sean. There’s a reason beyond you. That doesn’t happen to everybody. I never saw the light on the riverbank. I just heard you swimming, heard you breathing hard. You were struggling to get to shore.”

“It was as if I’d gone back in time – the time of the Civil War. I can’t explain it. Joe, that story you told me about the soldiers hanging the guy from the mast of the ship…I was there. Saw him swinging, his legs kicking. The gators…there is nothing I could do. The hallucinations…the strange dreams…what does it mean?”

Billie nodded. “We don’t always know immediately. Sometimes you don’t have to do something. You observe. You learn.”

“Is that what you do?”

”What do you mean?”

“Joe, I don’t pry…you know that. But I don’t know a lot about you. I appreciate your friendship. I value your insight into the natural world. But what’s in your world, what’s in your head? You sort of show up out of the blue and then disappear. Where the hell do you go? What do you do? I don’t even know if you’re married, or anything about your family.”

Billie smiled. “Like you, I was married once. And like you, my wife died. But she wasn’t taken by disease, she was taken by man.”

“Murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Did they find her killer?”

“No, at least not yet.”

“Maybe there’s something I can do.”

“Maybe. How are you feeling now?”

“Better. What’d you do?”

“I did what I could for the cut above your eye. And you were bleeding from your shoulder. I pulled a broken needle out. Figured whoever you fought…he or she fought with compounds…lethal drugs.”

“He.”

“Where is he?”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “I think I killed him.”

“You think?”

“I dove from the schooner into the river. He was getting away in an inflatable. The guy was a British agent. He’s left a string of bodies. He tried to break my neck underwater. I managed to get the upper hand and strangled him in the river. He just floated away with the current. What time is it?”

“About two hours before dawn.”

“I have to go.”

“Sean, you need some rest.”

“I need to find Kim. She was taken by a psychopath. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He’s been stalking her, and he’s severely delusional. Thinks he’s living in the Old South of the Civil War era, believes he’s a Confederate field officer. He’s s survivalist. A doomsday prepper with some severe antisocial behavior.”

“Where do you think he took her?”

“Maybe to his hideout in the Ocala National Forest.”

“Do you know what he drives?”

“A black pickup. Lots of dents in the body.”

“Is there a Confederate flag license plate on the front of the truck?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I’ve seen that truck parked way back in the forest. It’s not far from an area where I cut palm fronds. He lives in a tarpaper shack and trailer. Raises fighting roosters and hunting dogs. I’ve seen a few armed men at his camp from time to time.”

“Take me there, Joe. Now. Let’s cross the river in your canoe. My Jeep’s back at the landing with my Glock and plenty of rounds.”

“Maybe you’ll only need one.”

EIGHTY-FIVE

The dawn was breaking across the vast expanse of coconut palms and live oaks in the Ocala National Forest as O’Brien drove his Jeep down a dirt road that was a little more than a winding path into the forest. “We’re close,” Billie said, looking at the terrain.

“How close?”

“His camp is less than a quarter mile, in a clearing to the right. He’s got a cattle gate across the drive.”

“I’m betting he’s got more than that to stop visitors.”

“You mean booby-traps?”

“Yeah.”

O’Brien parked off the road, behind a canopy of cabbage palms. He opened the glove box, getting a second clip of bullets for his Glock. He looked over at Billie. “I know how you feel about killing. I’m hoping it won’t come to that. You can stay here. Wait for me if you want. I’m bringing Kim back.”

“If he has extra men in his camp, you’ll need me.”

“I have some more hardware in the back. You can pick.”

They got out of the Jeep, O’Brien opening the hatch, lifting a green Army blanket. Under it was a 12-gauge shotgun and a crossbow. He said, “Take your pick.”

Billie reached for the crossbow and a half dozen arrows bound together with one strand of quarter-inch rope tied in a bow for easy removal. O’Brien nodded and said, “You’re predictable. But the shotgun is more effective.”

“It announces its presence.”

“There’s something about the sound of chambering a shell that speaks to a man’s soul. Let’s go.”

They moved through the thick vegetation, keeping noise to a minimum. Red and purple bromeliads grew from tree trunks. Spidery air plants, with sea urchin-like tentacle sprouts, clung from the trees like holiday decorations. A wood stork, it’s wingspan stretching five-feet, flew from a dead branch of a bald cypress tree, uttering a primal call that echoed back to the time of the Jurassic period. Joe Billie looked up and then glanced down, following the giant bird’s shadow across the land. He pointed to something near a tree. “Fresh soil. Let’s take a look.”

They cautiously approached a small rise barely higher than the surrounding area. Animal tracks were all over the earth. A hole had been dug in two places. “Bear tracks,” Billie said stepping closer to the hole. “It’s a shallow grave, and a fresh one. Sean, what color is Kim’s hair.”

“Brown.”

“Then this poor girl is not her. She’s someone else’s daughter.”

O’Brien walked up to the hole, staring down at the partially eaten face of a girl, blonde hair matted and bloodied. He stepped back, eyes searching the setting. “I’m betting Silas Jackson killed and buried her. He’s a serial killer, Joe. Hurry!”

In less than ten minutes, O’Brien and Billie were approaching Silas Jackson’s camp. O’Brien looked at the closed cattle gate. The thick and rusted chain was padlocked. He licked his finger and held it up, glancing at the moving treetops. “You said he has a dog.”

“Pit bull.”

“Let’s stay downwind, moving to the right perimeter of the camp and circling back.”

“Look over there,” Billie said, pointing to the path overgrown with weeds and ferns. He stepped closer, kneeling. He gestured towards some dead fern leaves. “These leaves are the only ones around that are dead. They were placed here. Why?”

“Because there’s something under them. Don’t touch it, Joe.” O’Brien squatted down, slowly lifting up the small branches. He motioned toward a metal cap no wider than a bottle top. It was barely visible in the soil. “Let me see your knife.”

Billie slid a serrated hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. O’Brien began to gently work the blade into the dark soil at an angle about four inches from the metal cap. Clink. O’Brien looked up at Billie and said, “IED. Probably homemade. Could be more around here. Good catch. Keep an eye out for tripwires too.”

They continued moving closer to the camp. O’Brien felt a trickle of sweat roll down the center of his back. His mouth dry, his thoughts on Kim. Please be alive. Within a minute, they could see through the undergrowth into the camp. O’Brien studied it.

Jackson’s pickup truck was closest to the house. It was a ramshackle mixture of cinderblock, siding the steely color of an old barn, tarpaper on one side, metal stovepipe sticking out of a rusted tin roof. Chickens pecked the hard-packed ground. A dozen A-frame wooden structures housed fighting cock roosters. A thick-chested pit bull, leashed to a chain, crawled under the open porch.

O’Brien gestured toward a second pickup parked near what looked like a run-down cabin. “Probably more than just Jackson here today.”

Billie scanned the perimeter and then motioned with the crossbow. “At least one.”

“And he’s walking toward us. Right now we have the advantage of surprise. He’s got a pistol in his belt. Looks like he just woke up, which probably means he’s got a full bladder and is walking over here to the trees to take a piss.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Neutralize his potential.”

Billie said nothing.

O’Brien watched the man. He recognized him as one of the two men he’d sent packing the day he’d laid Jackson out cold in the truck bed. “Joe, move about fifty feet north. Watch out for traps. When he starts to piss, toss a rock to your far left.”

Billie nodded and slipped away into the scrub oaks and palms. O’Brien waited a few seconds. When the man unzipped his pants at the edge of the tree line, O’Brien crept behind him, careful not to enter the clearing.

Joe Billie tossed a fist-sized rock to within ten yards of where the man stood urinating. O’Brien watched the man turn his head, thick brow, shielded eyes searching for the source of the sound. He continued urinating, one hand reaching to his side for the pistol grip. O’Brien took two quick steps, grabbing the man’s right wrist, lurching his arm hard behind his back, up to the shoulder blades. The arm snapped, the noise like a dog cracking a chicken bone. O’Brien delivered a solid blow to the man’s lower jaw, the force breaking the it. The man slumped on his back, urine flowing from his exposed penis like a yellow fountain splashing onto his dirty jeans.

Billie circled back to O’Brien, glanced down at the unconscious man and said, “He smells like cheap wine and meth.” He looked toward the house. “Dog’s out.”

O’Brien watched the pit bull pace twice and sit. The big dog cocked its head and stared in the direction where they hid behind the edge of the trees. O’Brien whispered, “He hasn’t barked yet. Maybe he won’t. Joe, keep an eye out front. If anyone else comes out of the shack, he’s yours. I’m going to approach Jackson’s house from the rear. I know Kim’s in there. But I don’t know what he’s done to her.”