Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

SIXTEEN

She tried to sound fearless. O’Brien could hear the alarm in Kim’s voice. On his way back to Ponce Marina, he called Kim, and she told him about finding the rose. After she read the note he said, “Those shoeprints in your front yard…did you happen to use your phone to snap a picture before the dew evaporated?”

“No. Sean, I’m not a police investigator. My mind doesn’t work that way. I just want this guy to go away. The stuff he wrote on the card is bizarre.”

“One line is from Shakespeare…‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ I’m thinking about the implication of what he wrote…the rose changing its color and the Confederate blood analogy. What rose changes colors?”

“I don’t care! Maybe I can get a restraining order.”

“Where are the rose and the note?”

“On my kitchen table.”

“Put the rose in a vase with water.”

“Sean, are you crazy?”

“It’s evidence. Keep it alive. Snap a picture of it. Bring the rose and the note to the marina – to Dave’s boat, Gibraltar. I’ll call to let him know we’re coming.”

* * *

No one in the cemetery noticed the man. He kept his distance. Just another mourner visiting a grave in a remote section of the cemetery. But there were no graves in the nearby woods. He wore dark glasses and a Scottish tweed hat, his features vague in the distance from the gravesite where Jack Jordan was about to be laid to rest.

Laura Jordan sat in one of the metal folding chairs, her daughter next to her, dozens of friends and family sitting or standing near the open grave. The humid air smelled of flowers and fresh dirt. A green canvas awning, held in place by white metal poles, cast a section of the mourners in shade. Most wore sunglasses. Some wiped away tears trickling from behind the dark lens. A few used hand-fans to circulate the steamy air around their faces.

They listened to a tall, thin minister with a ruddy face and hair to match speak eloquently of Jack Jordan, the difference Jack had made in his community, his love of family, country, history, and God. “For those fortunate enough to have spent time with Jack, you couldn’t but help but feel good in Jack’s presence,” said Reverend Simmons, glancing from the crowd of about one-hundred, looking up to the blue sky for a beat, then lowering his eyes to the flock. He nodded and smiled, almost like he remembered a joke he wanted to tell. “His positive spirit was infectious, giving anybody who knew him a brighter day. Jack would rather be off on his next adventure, searching for lost history. Always curious. Always probing for lost puzzle pieces. As much as he loved history, it was the present and future with his family that he treasured the most. Laura and little Paula were his light in the night.”

Laura blinked back tears and held her daughter’s tiny hand. She glanced across the cemetery, her fragmented thoughts swirling in variegated images of the last days she’d spent with her husband. A movement in the neighboring pine trees caught her eye. A man stood in the thicket and watched the funeral. Laura wondered if he was one of their friends. Maybe someone who’d rather grieve alone, a friend who preferred to keep in the background. But all of their mutual friends were here. She wasn’t sure, but it appeared he lifted a pair of binoculars to his face. The Reverend Simmons eulogy was now a faint soundtrack in her mind, lost in the warble of blue jay calls, soft sobbing, and the sound of a horse trailer passing by on the country road.

Laura swallowed dryly, glanced down at her daughter. Five seconds later, when she looked back toward the woods, the man was gone.

* * *

After forty-five minutes, most of the mourners had left the cemetery. Less than a dozen cars remained in the parking lot lined with large moss-draped oak and palm trees. Cardinals and wrens competed in song with choral chirrups and warbles. Laura and little Paula walked Jack Jordan’s mother and father to their parked Lincoln. There were long hugs and warm tears as they said their goodbyes, Laura’s mother-in-law promising that she would stop over tomorrow to visit and bring some more pictures of Jack when he was a boy. Laura nodded, thanked them, and then took Paula by the hand, walking across the hot cemetery parking lot to their car.

A shiny new Ford pickup truck was in the space beside Laura’s car. A man wearing dark clothes, approached the truck, coming from the direction of Jack’s grave. Cory Nelson smiled at Laura and Paula. Nelson, tall, broad shoulders, military haircut, removed his sunglasses and said, “I was just giving Jack my final farewell. How you holding up now, Laura?”

Laura glanced down at Paula. “It’s going to be hard without him.”

Nelson nodded. “I’m always here for you and Paula. I never thought I’d see a day like this. Jack was just…he was just larger than this life in everything he did.” Nelson leaned down and hugged Paula. “You take care of your mama, okay”

“Okay, Uncle Cory.”

He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers and stood just as a car engine started. It was at the far side of the lot. The last car, a gray BMW sedan, windows tinted. Laura watched Nelson’s eyes following the car. There was the no hint of recognition. Laura turned to look at who was leaving. She could barely make out a Scottish tweed hat pulled low. The driver wore dark glasses and didn’t slow or wave. Windows up. Identity sealed. She thought about the man she’d spotted at the edge of the woods during Jack’s service. She looked up at Nelson. “Who was that?”

He placed his sunglasses back on. “I couldn’t make out his face. Maybe someone Jack knew.” Laura could see the reflection of the car in the curved lens of the dark glasses, the automobile extending like a stretch limousine, somehow strange and incompatible with the lyrical sounds of birdsong in the oak trees. Over Nelson’s wide shoulders, high above a distant field of wildflowers, Laura saw black carrion birds riding the air currents, circling the smell of death below the deep blue sky.

SEVENTEEN

Max scampered down L dock a few feet in front of O’Brien. He carried the file folder in one hand. He paused to watch a forty-three-foot Viking inch into its slip, diesels gurgling in the marina water, two laughing gulls flying above the boat. A man in wrap-around mirrored sunglasses stood at the wheel adjusting the bow thrusters. Another man in swim shorts and a Miami Dolphins tank top stepped to the rear of the transom, tossing a line to a waiting boat owner standing on the dock. Max barked once, welcoming the fishermen’s return, and then trotting toward the end of the pier, head held high.

Kim was already there, sitting at a round table on the cockpit with Dave and Nick. O’Brien could see the rose in the center of the table, paper plates, cheese and a bottle of wine. Dave looked up and said, “Sean and Miss Max, welcome aboard. Kim brought the floral arrangement. Nick delivered a half-bushel of stone crab claws on ice. And I’m breaking out a couple of bottles of chardonnay I’ve been chilling.”

Nick grinned. “I brought a gallon of Kalama olives, a pound of feta cheese, and some pita bread. C’mon, hot dog, join Uncle Nicky in the galley.”

Max scurried up and down the steps leading to the cockpit, following Nick into the salon and down to the galley. O’Brien took a seat at the table, set the folder down, looked at the rose and said, “I’ve seen a rose like that.”

Dave nodded. “They’re in southern states, mostly.”

Kim said, “I’m wondering if I’ve seen them on graves.”

Dave leaned forward, moving his glass of wine. “Kim, you have every reason to be bitter about this unscheduled and somewhat dark delivery. However, after I did some research, I discovered a curious history connected to this species of rose. And, of course, it has a direct bearing on why the sender chose it.”

Kim folded her arms, a breeze across the water tossing her hair. She attempted a meager smile. “History? I’d like to see into the future – a future without this guy bringing me flowers and weird notes.”

Nick returned with a large platter filled with cracked stone crab claws on a bed of chipped ice. He set the food on the table. “Eat! Me and my gal pal, Max, already started.” Max sat down near Nick’s bare feet.

Dave reached for an olive and said, “First, it’s not really a rose, although it’s been labeled as such for years. This is a southern flower that’s more of a hibiscus than a rose. Nonetheless, it’s steeped in Old South tradition. It’s called a Confederate rose and carries quite a legend with it. When it first blooms, the petals are as white as cotton. But as it goes through the blooming cycle, the petals begin to turn pink and then finally red before the bloom withers and dies.”

O’Brien slid the vase and rose a little closer to him. He studied it for a few seconds. “What’s the history or the legend?”

“The flower is said to embody the dying spirit of a young Confederate soldier. As the story goes, the soldier, wounded from battle, was said to have fallen upon the flower trying to return home. He bled over the course of two days, some of his blood covering the petals. And then he died. These roses, if you will, sort of follow the birth and death process with the color changes. And after that, the term Confederate rose was used extensively from the end of the Civil War through today. Many of the Civil War veterans returning to the state of Alabama were greeted with these roses.”

Nick dipped the meat of a stone crab claw into a spicy mustard sauce. He said, “Sean, slide that vase back to the center of the table. I don’t want to stop and smell the rose, at least not that one.”

O’Brien held the vase, examining the rose, then set in back in the center of the table. He said, “Where’s the card or note the guy left?”

Kim reached for her purse, opened it, and removed the single white note card. “I read this to Dave and Nicky earlier.” She handed it to O’Brien.

He read it aloud, “‘Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose is different. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman.’” O’Brien glanced at the rose.

Dave said, “The opening is an obvious reference to Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. In that line, Juliet was suggesting that the names and titles of things don’t matter. It’s what those things really are or are not that matters. So whoever wrote the message to Kim was, perhaps, trying to reinforce Juliet’s words for possibly two reasons: the first is that the Confederate rose doesn’t have a palpable scent, so it really is different from other roses, by any other name. Conceivably, in his mind, as Kim is different from other women. Maybe the sender was simply using an analogy of the changes in the rose to symbolize the birth and death of the Confederacy. In the beginning, the petals are pure and white, slowly changing with time and the elements, the rose gets darker in color, finally dying on the bush.”

Nick grunted and used a napkin to wipe a speck of feta cheese from his moustache. He said, “Dave, you can try to profile stupid all day long, but crazy is crazy. This guy is nuts, and he has a sick thing for Kim. Maybe I use him in my crab traps.” Nick took a bite of crab.

O’Brien said, “Kim, on the phone, you’d mentioned that you didn’t know who did this, but you had an idea. Who do you suspect?”

Kim folded her arms, glancing at a commercial fishing boat leaving the marina before shifting her eyes to O’Brien. “Remember when the old man brought you the picture of the woman, and I’d mentioned to you that I spent a day on the set of the movie, Black River?”

O’Brien nodded. “You were auditioning for a small part.”

“The casting directing and her staff were trying to cast hundreds of extras. I was hoping for a small speaking role. While I was on set, one of the extras, a re-enactor, kept staring at me. I was uncomfortable and I moved around the set, trying to avoid him. After I read for the role, I left the room to go to the craft services table for a bottle of water. This guy, dressed in a Civil War uniform, approached me and asked if I’d ever seen the movie, Shenandoah. I said I hadn’t. Then he said I reminded him of Katharine Ross, the lead actress in the film. And then he tipped his hat to me and walked away. Although he gave the suggestion of the southern gentlemen, he also gave me the creeps.”

Dave said, “But he never told you his name.”

“No, and I didn’t ask.”

Nick raised his eyebrows. “Did the dude get the part in the movie?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t called back to the set. So I just added the experience to my bucket list, auditioning for a part in a movie, and I left it at that…until the old man came into the Tiki Bar with the picture of the woman, and Sean started looking for a Civil War era painting.”

O’Brien opened the file folder and looked at the photograph. He said, “I mentioned I’d seen a rose or flower like that one.”

“Oh shit,” Nick said, sipping his wine. “Here it comes.”

O’Brien handed the photo to Dave and said, “It’s there in the photo. In the woman’s left hand. She’s holding a single rose, a rose that looks just like the one on the table.”

Dave passed the picture to Kim. She looked at it and held one hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

EIGHTEEN

Franklin Sheldon glanced out the window of his personal Gulfstream G650 jet as the pilot descended over Jacksonville, Florida. The interior of the world’s fastest private jet – jets that can fly nearly Mach speed – the speed of sound, was done in cream and light browns, cherry wood, burled walnut, soft leather chairs and couches, retractable lighting. A shapely, twenty-something blonde flight attendant refilled coffee cups and prepared plates of fresh fruits and exotic cheeses. Sheldon, traveling with his top international lawyer and his Senior VP of Design, was returning to the states after a two-day business trip to Beijing, China.

Sheldon, a self-made billionaire software developer, owned or controlled more than a dozen global companies. He bore a significant resemblance to Liam Neeson. Sheldon sat in a wide leather chair, laptop open, sipping green tea from a cup made in China. His two employees sat behind him, each man reading information on computer screens.

The jet dropped altitude, making a half circle over Jacksonville as the pilot readied to land. Sheldon looked down at the city. In a way, it reminded him of his hometown, San Diego – both near the sea, both with a long maritime and naval history. But it was in Jacksonville where one of the best yacht builders in the world was headquartered. Not only could Poseidon Shipyard custom-build state-of-the-art yachts, the company was one of the few in the world with the expertise to design and construct a wooden schooner from scratch – from yacht-building plans that went back to 1851 when the racing yacht America was launched. After his recent America’s Cup win in late summer, as challenger, beating New Zealand, Franklin Sheldon would be the only man in the world to own an exact replica of the famous race’s namesake, the yacht America.

He thought about that as the jet taxied from the tarmac and eased to a stop. A black CL65 Mercedes pulled up, the driver hidden behind darkened windows. He parked the car, kept the motor running, waiting for the men to disembark from the jet. He didn’t wait long. The door opened, ramp lowered to the asphalt, and the men exited the plane. Sheldon was last. The chief pilot, slender, silver haired, stood just outside the cockpit as Sheldon exited and said, “We’ll be right here when you get back, Mr. Sheldon.”

“It’ll be less than two hours.”

“She’ll be refueled, sir. Congratulations, again, on the America’s Cup win. You brought the trophy back home.”

“That’s the game, Ed. Claim the trophy. Hang the head on the damn wall.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later Franklin Sheldon was at Poseidon Boatyard inspecting the construction of the wooden schooner. It was solid wood, three-mast racing yacht, and almost finished. Sheldon crawled over every recess of the 101-foot yacht, examining everything for accuracy. His staff and two members of the construction team followed him, all the men, except Sheldon, wearing hardhats. The workers took a lunch break as the men made their inspection and tour.

Sheldon wasn’t completely satisfied. He rarely was. He barked suggestions or corrections, the yacht architect and master builder jotting down notes on clipboards, each man nodding as Sheldon went through the schooner, bow to stern. He said, “In September, I want to sail her from the states to England, making the same damn voyage the original yacht made in 1851. Will she be ready?”

“She should, Mr. Sheldon,” the builder said, scribbling a note and underlining a word.

“The word should means nothing to me. Either she will be ready or she will not. Which is it, Don?”

“She’ll be ready for the christening by the end of September, sir.”

Sheldon stood from examining the keel and started a slow smile. “Make it happen, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sheldon’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the number of the incoming call and said, “I need to take this.” He stepped away from his party, pressing the receive button on his phone and standing near the bow of the yacht. He said, “I’m here. What do you have?”

“What you wanted.”

“It’s done.”

“Yes.”

“Bring it to me.”

“Not so fast, Mr. Sheldon. I know you want it because it was the last cargo carried by the predecessor of that schooner you’re building. However, it is of great value to its former owner.”

“How much?”

“That’s not a question for me to provide the answer. To the highest bidder.”

“You can’t auction it.”

“Yes I can, and I will. The question, even with your formidable wealth is this: can you out bid the Queen of England?”

“This is not acceptable!”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Listen to me, you worm!” The call disconnected. Sheldon gripped his phone, knuckles cotton white, the pupils in his eyes on fire and no larger than pinheads.

NINETEEN

Professor Ike Kirby stared at the old photograph in silence. He sat at a table on Gibraltar’s open cockpit with Dave Collins, Nick Cronus and Sean O’Brien. Max sat near Nick’s feet, waiting for him to drop a piece of food. She didn’t have to wait long. The men watched, eating quietly as Kirby examined the picture. His silver hair was neatly parted, eyes puffy, a salt and pepper beard covered most of his long, weathered face. “She’s a striking woman. Definitely Civil War era,” he said, tilting the picture, catching the amber light of the sun setting beyond the mangroves, casting a tawny shimmer across the water in Ponce Marina. “I feel like I’ve seen that picture, or one like it, somewhere.”

Dave pushed back in his chair and said, “She’s striking, but she’s an enigma. That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to hear the story behind the photo. Since you’re a Civil War scholar, you’ve seen hundreds of Civil War images. The woman in the photo is the kind of beauty that leaves an impression in a man’s memory. I call it the Cleopatra effect. Her identity might point to the grave, or at least the identity, of an unknown soldier. A man who died looking a final time at the woman in that photo.”

Nick grinned. “Dave calls her an enigma. Considering what’s happening – the fella shot on the movie set, the word ghost seems spot on.” He reached down and fed Max a sliver of broiled crab.

Ike Kirby raised his snow-white eyebrows and looked over his bifocals. “What do you mean?”

Dave said, “Ike, Sean can explain that in more detail in a minute. You mentioned earlier that you’re working as a consultant on the movie, Black River. Are you spending some time on the set?”

“Most of my work was in pre-production and consulting with the director and screenwriter. I have spent a few days on set to assist, where I can, with the authenticity. But I’m no set or art director. I’m also speaking at a Civil War history conference in Orlando.” He handed the picture to O’Brien. “I feel as though I’ve seen her face, but I can’t recall the circumstances. The story you told me about how you’re searching for a portrait painted from this photograph is fascinating. Just the fact that the original photo was found on a Civil War battlefield between two dead soldiers gives a world-weary elder historian like me a bounce to my step.”

O’Brien nodded and said, “The thing that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up is what Nick alluded to…how the image of the woman in the picture is somehow connected to the re-enactor killed on the movie set.”

“What’s the connection?”

Dave sipped a glass of chardonnay and looked at his friend. “Sean told you how he came to obtain that photo. But what he hasn’t shared with you yet is its serendipitous link to the accident.”

O’Brien said, “But we don’t know if it’s an accident.” He cut his eyes from Dave to Ike. “What’s your take on the shooting? What’s the talk on film set? Do you think it was an accident?”

Ike cleared his throat. “I was on the set after the man’s death. He had a lot of friends and they all seem very shaken and saddened. Every man and woman I’ve met on that movie seems like they enjoy a real camaraderie, professional and personal. It’s similar to what I’ve seen in mock Civil War battle reenactments around the South and the North. They’re passionate about the Civil War.”

Nick wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, “I couldn’t be passionate about any war ‘cause that’s the human race at its damn worst, so why reenact misery and death?”

Ike nodded. “The Civil War was unique among wars, though. Death was the tragic consequence of attempting to preserve a way of life or an illusion of life. In retrospect, the supposed dichotomy between the North and the South was more political than social or even geographical.” He looked across the table to O’Brien and asked, “What is the association, the photo of the woman and the death on the movie set?”

“It’s the portrait that was painted from this picture, or the original picture. The man that owned the painting, he and his wife bought it in an antique store a few months ago – was the same man killed on the set. And his name is Jack Jordan.”

Ike sat straighter in his deck chair. “That’s sad and a very bizarre coincidence.”

Dave nodded. “After working more than a decade as a homicide detective, Sean would be the first to tell us there are few, if any coincidences in crime, especially murder.”

Ike’s eyebrows arched. He looked at O’Brien. “Do you think the man was murdered?”

“I don’t know. At this point, I’m simply trying to find a long-lost painting for an elderly man with cancer.”

Ike tilted his head. “You mentioned that you and a friend found the spot on the St. Johns River where the picture was taken, correct?”

“Yes, it’s a high bluff on the north side of the river, near a wide oxbow. To the south is where Dunns Creek enters the St. Johns. The river is very wide there.”

Gibraltar rocked slightly as a trawler backed out of a slip, the captain easing the big boat across Ponce Marina, a mild wake rolling over the surface of the water. Ike watched the trawler for a moment and said, “The St. Johns River played a lot of unique roles during the Civil War. The river was the scene of ferocious fighting. Lots of gunboats, torpedo-like mines placed just below the surface. Confederate troops, commanded by one of the savviest leaders the South had, played hell with the Union. The rebels were led by a man the Union called Swamp Fox. His real name was Captain J. J. Dickison. He never lost any of the dozens of raids he led against the Union. He and his men knew the swamps and Florida backcountry. The Union forces were always caught off guard. And none of them could follow or find Dickison and his marauders. But they did kill one of his two sons, and that event made Dickison even a much greater foe to the Union.”

Nick grinned. “So then he really got pissed, kicked butt and took names.”

Ike looked over his bifocals and nodded. “That’s an accurate portrayal, to put it mildly. Dickison commanded a raid called the Battle of Horse Landing on the St. Johns River. After the smoke cleared, his men had sank a massive Union gun, the Columbine. And they did it from the river’s edge. No Confederate forces had ever done that. Dickison salvaged a lifeboat from the wreckage, and he and his men hid it in a creek that flowed into the river. He used that boat to help Confederate Secretary of War, John Breckinridge, navigate south on the river, hijacking a sailboat and escaping to Cuba. Breckinridge later fled to England. Dickison stayed behind in Florida.”

“Did they eventually catch and kill Dickison?” Nick asked.

“No. The war was about over, the South gutted. Dickison just stopped fighting. He walked away. Two weeks later, he was rounded up at his little cottage on the shore of a deep spring called Bugg Spring, imprisoned for a short period and released. A few historians believe the only reason he was held in prison was to interrogate him about the Confederate treasury, what little gold may have been left. Many believe John Breckenridge was traveling with the remains of the treasury. In his escape, he’d have a hard time taking it to Cuba or England later. Some believe he tasked Dickison with the job of hiding the gold.”

Dave said, “Maybe he dropped it into Bugg Spring.”

Ike smiled. “Maybe. The water is crystal clear, but it’s very deep and veers off into underwater passages. No one could begin to treasure hunt there now.”

“Why’s that?” O’Brien asked.

“Because the U.S. Navy conducts most of its ultra-sensitive and ultra-secret underwater sonar tests there. What they learn makes it into navigation systems for nuclear submarines. Anyone going into that spring would be shot.”

Nick sipped a Corona, chuckled and said, “I used to dive for sponges. I can find anything underwater. Even lost submarines, right Sean and Dave?”

Dave said, “Nick’s a human sonar. A porpoise under the sea.”

Ike’s gray eyes ignited for a second. He reached for the photo next to O’Brien. “May I see that one more time?”

“Sure.”

Ike looked at the woman’s picture for a few seconds, her face reflected in the lights onto the lower portion of his bifocals. “Ahh…now I remember. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a painting on the movie set that’s similar to this.”

“Where on the set?” O’Brien asked.

“In an antebellum plantation-style home known as the Wind ‘n Willow near Ocala. The film company is renting it to shoot scenes there. I believe the painting was used as a prop and hung in the great room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano. The painting was used in some of the first scenes they shot. But I don’t believe they’ve finished shooting in the house.”

Dave said, “If it is this puzzling painting, it means it was bought by Jack Jordan and his wife in that antique store you found, Sean. Maybe, since he was in the movie, he let the art department borrow or buy it.”

Nick said, “Well, if it was on loan, the dead man’s wife still owns it. And I’m bettin’ she wants it back big time.”

“How do I find this place?” O’Brien asked

“The Wind ‘n Willow Plantation is off highway 122. South of Ocala. The street is Dixie Drive. I don’t remember the address. But it’s easy to find.” Ike reached inside his wallet and pulled out a card. “Here’s a business card for the art director. Guy’s name is Mike Houston. Tell him you’re a friend of mine. Everybody on the set acts a little frenzied, and since the death, they’re quite excitable.”

“Thanks, I’ll drive out there in the morning. Maybe I can wrap this thing up.”

“That’s possible,” Dave said, reaching for a napkin. He watched the rotating beam from the lighthouse for a second. “Sean, if this is that painting, you’ve done what you were commissioned to do. If the widow, or even the film company owns it, your client may want to buy it, or snap a picture of whatever’s written on the backside of the painting. And you, with your first PI job, can quietly walk away. But something is gnawing at my gut and telling me it might not be that simple.”