Текст книги "Black River"

Автор книги: Tom Lowe

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

TWENTY

It wasn’t hard for O’Brien to find the Wind ‘n Willows plantation. A bronze plaque near a slate-rock fence on the perimeter of the property indicated the estate was included on the National Register of Historic Places. O’Brien didn’t take time to read the inscription as he followed a film production lighting and grip truck down a winding gravel drive through manicured property that included a grove of pecan trees, stately live oaks, blooming azaleas, and camellias.

A white-columned, Greek Revival plantation home could be seen at the end of a long row of trees. O’Brien parked his Jeep under a century-year-old oak, limbs swathed with Spanish moss, blackbirds squawking in the branches. He got out and began walking down a long gravel driveway toward the great house, the sweet scent of blooming magnolias heavy in the motionless air.

Dozens of production vans, cars and two semi-trucks were parked in an adjacent field. Film crew workers, most wearing shorts, T-shirts and baseball caps, moved around the property, walkie-talkies crackling. Actors dressed in period clothing stood in small groups chatting, some sipping coffee from white Styrofoam cups, others sitting at folding tables beneath large awnings. The crew carried lights, jibs and dolly tracks inside the front door of the old home.

Beyond the mansion, at the end of the pecan grove, an actor sat motionless on a chestnut-brown horse. O’Brien watched him for a moment. Even on a film set, in the midst of art in motion and life fixed on storyboards, the man on horseback looked somehow out of sync with the rhythm of the movie set.

O’Brien walked closer to the mansion, approaching a college-aged girl, blond hair pulled through an opening in the back of her baseball cap. He smiled and asked, “Are cameras about to roll?”

“Getting close.”

“Are you the director?”

She grinned. “One day, maybe. I’m a PA, short for production assistant. This is my first feature since graduating from film school. They have me working props, shipping and receiving stuff.”

O’Brien extended his hand. “Sean O’Brien.”

“Katie Stuart, nice to meet you. Are you an actor?”

“I don’t have the talent. For you, it sounds like a good start in the biz. Is Mike Huston, the art director, on set?”

“He’s like the big guy in the department. I don’t even think he knows my name. Just a sec.” She held one hand up, listening to chatter coming through a single earpiece connected to a walkie-talkie. Her eyes searched the surrounding area, then she spoke into the walkie-talkie. “I don’t see Phil. He might be in his trailer. I’ll try to find him.” She turned back to O’Brien. “Sorry, it’s typical crazy, but like in a good way.”

“And that’s a good thing.” O’Brien smiled.

She pushed a strand of blond hair back under her hat. “Absolutely, especially after the accident. We’re all trying to move forward. Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“Good. You’re looking for Mike, right?”

O’Brien nodded.

“He’s probably inside the house. I’d lead you to him, but I’m not sure I can do that. Set protocol and whatnot. Also, I need to find an actor who’s MIA.”

“He’ll be back. Actors need some direction to run away. Describe Mike for me.”

She smiled. “He’s not quite as tall as you. Kinda losing his hair. He’s wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And he’s carrying an iPad. Gotta go.” She turned and left.

O’Brien walked up to the huge front porch, climbed a dozen steps centered between large white columns. Wooden rocking chairs, a porch swing and antique outdoor furniture were tactically positioned on the veranda. He followed power cables into the house, nodding at production assistants, gaffers, and camera and sound technicians going in and out.

Inside, they were preparing to shoot a scene in a great room, one wall lined with old books, a massive stone fireplace, and hot lights shining through diffusion screens. O’Brien tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible. He watched the assistant director position two stand-in actors as the lighting was set. He remembered what Professor Ike Kirby said: “I believe the painting was used as a prop, hung in the huge parlor room with period furniture all around the room, big fireplace, near an old piano.”

O’Brien looked at the walls, above the piano, over the fireplace. Lots of paintings. Art depicting Civil War era dynasties, landscapes, sailing ships – but nothing resembling the woman in the photograph. He could feel the mood on the set change, like an abrupt change in weather.

The crew seemed to part as a man in his mid-fifties entered the room. He had long limbs, dirty blond hair, and a lined and timeworn face. He walked with a distinct gait across the wood floor. O’Brien assumed he was the director as he stepped up to a man that matched Mike Houston’s description – black shirt, sleeves rolled up. They looked at the monitors together, each man speaking in a low tone.

O’Brien waited for them to finish before approaching. He worked his way around the production crew and actors, removing the photo from the file folder, walking up to the person he assumed was Mike Huston and said, “Excuse me. Mr. Houston, Professor Ike Kirby suggested that I see you.”

“Ike’s been a savior on this film. He has an enormous understanding of Civil War history. What can I do for you…I didn’t catch your name.” The director didn’t acknowledge O’Brien.

“I’m Sean O’Brien, Mr. Houston. Professor Kirby told me about a painting that’s being used as a prop for the movie. It was painted from this old photo.” He extended the photo. Mike Houston held it in one hand. O’Brien continued. “Is it here, on the set?”

“It was, but I’m sorry to say it’s no longer here.”

“Where is it?”

“Stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Yes, unfortunately. After the third day of shooting, we became aware it was gone when we were playing back scenes for continuity.” He gestured toward a far wall to his right. “It hung above the piano. And it was in every wide shot we took.”

“Was the theft reported to police?”

“Of course. Its owner, a re-enactor we had hired, loaned it to us.”

“Who was the re-enactor?”

Houston glanced at the director for a beat. “His name was Jack Jordan?”

“Was?”

“He died in a tragic accident.”

“The shooting?”

As Houston started to answer, the director said, “This is a closed set, Mr. O’Brien. What’s your real business here?”

“The painting originally belonged to my client’s family. My client is elderly and ill. He wants to find the painting before his death. It has a lot of history and meaning for him. I’m simply trying to locate it, not recover it.”

The director lifted one eyebrow, touched the tip of his nose like he was swatting a gnat. “Client? Are you a lawyer?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Which means you’re not a legitimate police detective. You’re costing me time and money. We have a film to shoot. Leave now or we’ll call security and escort you off the property we’re leasing.” The director turned his back and walked over to the director of photography.

O’Brien glance up at the wall behind the piano, placed the photo back in the folder, and walked out the door. On the porch, he stepped to one side as six actors – four women and two men, dressed in Confederate uniforms and period gowns started to climb the steps. Personal assistants, a publicist, and hair and make-up people followed them. A behind-the-scenes photographer snapped a candid picture of the ensemble before they entered the cavernous mansion.

O’Brien started for his car, his thoughts replaying what Mike Houston had said about how he discovered the painting was missing when he looked at the scene takes. O’Brien’s mind raced. Now I know the painting exists. It was caught on camera…but the camera can’t reveal what was inscribed on the back of the canvas.

TWENTY-ONE

O’Brien was almost to his Jeep when heard footsteps coming from behind him, walking faster. “Pardon me,” came a man’s voice.

O’Brien turned around, expecting to see a security guard. A man wearing a Confederate uniform came closer. He was unshaven, dark whiskers, elongated face damp from perspiration. He said, “Couldn’t help but overhearing you back there on the set. Heard what you said about the painting. Name’s Cory Nelson.”

O’Brien looked at the man’s medals. “Do I call you Captain Nelson?”

“Only if you’re doing a reenactment with me.” He grinned. “When I’m wearing my Confederate uniform I’m a captain. When I’m dressed as a Union soldier I’m just an enlisted man.”

“So are you a re-enactor who can fight for either side, the blue or the gray?”

“You work more in the movie and TV biz that way. I’m more of an actor than a re-enactor. I’m pretty good at accents, especially Scottish and English. Hell, I’ve even worked in theater.” He glanced to his right and left. “That painting belonged to a friend of mine. He was the one killed in that freak accident on set.”

“I’m sorry for the loss of your friend.”

“You said your client is looking for the painting. Mind if I ask why?”

“It would prove that a relative of his wasn’t a deserter during the Civil War. And at my clients advanced age and health, it’s important for him to know.”

“I understand. Too bad somebody walked off with it, especially considering what happened to Jack.”

“Were you there when he died?”

“Yeah…but not right where he was killed. By the time I got there, they had a sheet over Jack’s body and the cops were on the scene.”

“And no one knows which rifle fired the fatal shot, correct?”

Nelson raised his blond eyebrows. “No, at least I don’t think anybody knows. Jack didn’t make enemies. It was the first battle scene filmed…just carelessness. Somebody not checking his firearm thoroughly. It’s sad. Jack left a wife and little girl.”

“Do you know where Jack found the painting?”

“He and his wife, Laura, bought it at some antique shop. Jack showed the painting to Mike, the art director you just met. Mike loved the painting. He wanted to buy it, but Jack told him it wasn’t for sale. Mike wasn’t the only one who had a fascination for the painting.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a re-enactor who couldn’t take his eyes off of it. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He was one of the first hired on the movie. Jackson lasted a little more than a week. He began questioning how the filmmakers were doing their thing.”

“Questioning?”

“This guy’s a purest. He lives and breathes Civil War reenactment like a religion. If he didn’t like the way the assistant director was lining things up, he questioned it for realism. The film folks were patient at first, but that changed and they had security walk him off the set.”

“Does he portray Confederate and Union soldiers as an actor or re-enactor?”

Nelson shook his head. “Never. For him, it’s the gray all the way. He has rebel blood flowing in his veins.”

“Where do I find Silas Jackson?”

Nelson grinned, lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and said, “He’s about as close to the Aryan Brotherhood that you’ll come across. Hell, maybe a lot worse. Some call him a radical anarchist and prepper.”

“Prepper?”

“Yeah. He’s always preparing.”

“For what?”

“Civil dissolution in the country. He says he wants to take the nation back. He has a trailer deep in the Ocala National Forest. Hunts and traps. Lives off the land, for the most part. He makes the dudes on Duck Dynasty look like boy scouts. I didn’t catch your name?”

“Sean O’Brien.”

He nodded and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know for sure that Silas Jackson stole that painting you’re hunting for, Mr. O’Brien, but he’d stare at it and say stuff like he could feel the presence of the woman in the painting. He said she was reawakened in another woman, and when he found that other woman, he’d know it. Crazy stuff.”

O’Brien said nothing for a long moment. “You said he lives deep in the forest. How deep?”

“Near the headwaters of Juniper Creek.” Nelson pulled a watch out of his pocket. “I need to get back to the set.” He dropped his cigarette and used his boot to crush the hot ash.

O’Brien looked at the boot print a second and then lifted his eyes to Nelson. “Thanks for the information.”

“No problem. Maybe you can find that painting somehow, help get it back to Jack’s wife, Laura. Cops haven’t found it. Probably won’t.”

As Nelson turned to leave, O’Brien said, “One last question.”

“Sure.”

“Where’s the casting department?”

“It’s in a trailer near the grassy lot where most of the cars are parked.”

“Thanks.”

“If you do go into the forest looking for Silas Jackson, you’d better take some men with you. He’s got a like-minded group of followers who meet with him from time to time. They camp, ride horseback in the woods, shoot at cutout targets of politicians. Silas is always armed. And he was born dangerous.”

TWENTY-TWO

The casting trailer was parked in the shade under a live oak. O’Brien knocked on the door and entered. A middle-aged woman with full lips, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat behind a modular desk, one hand on a computer mouse, eyes trained on the screen. She wore tight faded jeans and a T-shirt that read: Black River – The Movie. She looked up at O’Brien and said, “If you’re here to read, I’m sorry. All the parts are cast.”

O’Brien grinned. “Darn, I guess I missed the cut.”

She leaned back in her chair a moment and smiled. “Hardly, you most definitely would have made the cut, but you missed the casting deadlines.” She glanced at her computer screen and then raised her eyes back up to O’Brien. “I’m casting for a TV series in two months. You could be just what the director is looking for in one role. You ever play a bad guy?”

“Only if I’m forced to.”

She smiled. “Do you have a headshot, resume?”

“Maybe I can come back with that. In the meantime, you might have a headshot on file of an actor who auditioned.”

“What’s his or her name?”

“Silas Jackson.”

“Let me see.” She typed on her keyboard for a few seconds, squinting. “Umm…I do have a head shot. But it’s not one that he carried in here. I remember when I met him. He brought half a dozen of his Civil War reenactment buddies with him. I hired them all. Wardrobe department actually took the shots to keep for continuity purposes, mostly. But with these guys, you don’t have to worry about realism. They know period clothing better than just about anyone.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Sure, but this man doesn’t work on the film anymore.”

O’Brien stepped next to the casting director’s chair and looked at the computer screen. A man dressed in a Confederate uniform stared into the camera, eyes empty, handlebar moustache disheveled. O’Brien nodded. “He certainly resembles soldiers I’ve seen in real Civil War photos.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance of a friend. Do you have a phone number for him?”

“All of that information is confidential.”

“I understand.” O’Brien smiled. “Maybe I could audition for a part on the TV show you mentioned. How are actors paid…every week?”

“Depends on the actor and the deal. The bigger the name, the more complicated it can be.”

“How about for extras…people like Silas?”

“They’re usually paid directly unless they make arrangements through an agent. Otherwise they can receive a check by mail or pick it up on every other Friday at the payroll trailer. I’d doubt very much if any of the re-enactors have an agent. This stuff is what they do on their days off.”

O’Brien nodded, turned to leave and said, “I look forward to seeing the movie.”

“It’ll be great.”

“No doubt. Oh, one more thing. Where do they look at the film takes? I know it used to be called dailies, but the digital world renamed it.”

“They do rough-cut editing in a post-production edit suite they’re using at the Hilton in DeLand. After the director is satisfied, the scenes are uploaded to the cloud for the studio executives to view back in LA.”

“Editing…now that’s where the story comes together. That’s what I’d like to try. But I guess it’s too late for me. I’d have to go to film school.”

“Not really. A good editor is a person who sees the big picture but uses smaller pictures to segue from an opening, middle, and finally the end. If the editor is really talented, it’s flawless and the audience is swept up in the story.”

“I’ve usually been okay at seeing the big picture. I could use a new career, maybe intern for a while, I might have an eye for it. I was pretty quick with jigsaw puzzles. Thanks.” O’Brien opened the door to exit.

“Hey, what’d you say your name is?”

He smiled. “I didn’t say, but it’s O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”

“In a slight way, you look like the actor on the old TV series, Wyatt Earp. I like the old shows on the TV Land channel. His name was Hugh O’Brian. He wouldn’t be your grandfather, would he?”

“Different spelling of the last name.” O’Brien smiled.

“One of the off-line editors over at the post-production suite in the Hilton is free-lance. He’s very good, and he’s an old friend of mine. He cuts features, TV spots – a lot of episodic TV. His name’s Oscar Roth.” She used a pen to write on a slip of paper. “Here’s his number. Tell him I told you to call. My name’s Shelia Winters. If he isn’t with the director and has some time, maybe he’ll let you sit in and watch for a little while…to see if you might like it. Good editors stay busy. Although Oscar always schedules at least three weeks a year to fish.”

O’Brien took the paper, folded it, and put it in his jean’s pocket. “Thank you. Maybe you’ve opened the door for me to a new career.”

“If the editing doesn’t work out, you should really think about acting. I think you have the chops.” She smiled wide. “Here’s my number. Let’s stay in touch.”

O’Brien smiled, took her card and walked out the door. He called Kim Davis as he approached his car. She answered and he said, “Kim, describe the Civil War re-enactor that kept staring at you when you were on the film set.”

“Why, Sean? What’s going on?”

“Just curious.”

“He’s tall and thin. A narrow face with a handlebar moustache. Dark Elvis-style sideburns. When he tipped his hat to me, I saw he had a full head of brown hair. Have you seen this guy? Why the call?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. I called because I’m concerned, and I’d like to know what he looks like should I happen to bump into him.”

“You don’t just happen to bump into someone, not you. You intentionally bump into them. I’m fine, I guess. I don’t know if he left the rose in my mailbox. He was polite, but beneath his ‘yes ma’am’ manners, under all that Civil War chivalry, I felt there was some kind of sociopath staring at me. Don’t go slaying dragons. I’m not some damsel in distress. Let sleeping monsters lie. Talk to you later, Sean.”

TWENTY-THREE

O’Brien walked down the long gravel driveway toward his Jeep, a mockingbird chortling in the live oaks, the sounds of children laughing and playing near the shore of a small lake. He heard the crunch of tires rolling over pecan shells. He stopped walking and turned around to see a woman riding a turn-of-the century bicycle, coming down the middle of the driveway Her hair was as black as a raven’s feather, a blue bonnet tilted on her head, face like porcelain, red pursed lips, white dress billowing as she raced the summer wind.

O’Brien lifted one hand to wave, stepping out of her way. She kept riding, knees pumping, eyes trained on the distant bend in the old drive, beyond a pecan grove. She rode beneath the canopies of live oaks, limbs arching across the drive, the speckled sunlight breaking through the branches in pockets of light flaring off her white dress.

When she passed, O’Brien could smell lavender in the air. He thought she was probably an actress deep in character, someone taking a bike ride between scenes. Watching her ride the old bicycle down the road, he felt there was something unusual about the woman that was odd in a

place of movie set facades, make-believe – where strange was normal.

Then he heard the whinny of a horse. O’Brien looked to his far left, one hundred feet beyond his Jeep, across the gravel road, a man dressed in a Confederate uniform sat tall on a horse. It was the same chestnut-brown horse and the same actor he’d seen earlier. He assumed the actor was keeping from boredom between the slow shooting of elaborate scenes.

As O’Brien walked toward his Jeep, the man led his horse around the perimeter of the pecan grove, the long shadows of trees cast by a setting sun rolled across the man’s whiskered face. He dismounted, took the horse by the reins and directed the animal into a cleared area almost hidden in the deep shade from the century-old oak trees.

O’Brien looked up to see something swirling in the hard-blue sky. Black carrion birds circled. From the pines through a barren meadow scattered with broken and dry corn stalks, came the cries of a mourning dove, the haunting call of the wild across an abandoned field of time.

O’Brien stepped around his Jeep in the direction he’d seen the actor and his horse disappear into the shadows. He walked through blackberry bushes and over rocks the size of pumpkins, the breeze tossing the pastel green leaves of kudzu vines clinging to tree trunks. He stepped over jagged hoof prints and feces left in the dirt by wild boars. The earth looked like a drunken man had plowed it where the hogs had rooted, the soil torn and left in corkscrew trenches.

When O’Brien got to the clearing enclosed in dense shadow, he could see it was a small cemetery. The re-enactor in the Confederate uniform had tied the horse to the limb of a sycamore tree. The man stood in the center of the cemetery. Head bowed. Moss-covered gravestones worn, stooping by neglect and age, drenched in shades of sepia-tone brown. The breeze stopped and tree leaves became motionless. A young crow flew to the top of a cottonwood tree, tilted its head, cut one blue eye at the horse and called out.

O’Brien watched the man in uniform place a flower on a grave. He stood there a moment, whispering something, perhaps praying, and then he turned and walked back to his horse. He was an older man, white whiskers and a narrow face. He held a Confederate officer’s slouch hat loosely in one hand, uniform clean, black boots polished. He placed his left boot in one stirrup and mounted the horse. He rode at a slow pace to the opposite side of the cemetery. As O’Brien approached, the man tipped his hat, turned and trotted away.

He galloped in the direction of the plantation house for a half-minute, and then spun left and trotted across the barren field of bent and broken corn stalks. He soon disappeared into the trees as a mist rose from the pine needles on the floor of the forest.

O’Brien felt a chill in the evening air when he stepped over the rusted wrought iron fence into the cemetery. He walked slowly around the timeworn gravestones, glancing at threadbare inscriptions, the scent of damp moss in the motionless air. He looked down at the headstone, a fresh-picked red rose next to it.

A Confederate rose. Very similar to the one delivered to Kim.

O’Brien slowly lifted his eyes from the grave, looking in the direction where the soldier had ridden across the field. A crow called out. O’Brien glanced at the burial plot. There were two graves to the left of the marker and a barren plot next to the headstone that read:

Angelina Hopkins

1840 – 1902

O’Brien opened the folder and stared at the women’s face in the picture, remembering what Gus Louden had said his great, great grandfather had written: ‘My Dearest Angelina, I had this painting commissioned from the photograph that I so treasure of you…’ O’Brien said, “Is this your grave? If I find the painting, what will that tell me?”

He placed the photo back in the folder and walked out of the cemetery in the twilight of a copper-colored landscape. O’Brien stood under the tall cottonwood tree and looked back in the direction the man on horseback hand gone. He didn’t match the description Kim gave of the re-enactor who approached her on the film set. ‘He’s tall and thin. A narrow face with a handlebar moustache. Dark Elvis-style sideburns. When he tipped his hat to me, I saw he had a full head of brown hair.’

O’Brien didn’t move for a moment. His mind raced, looking for patterns or contradictions in the people and places he’d recently seen. The older re-enactor didn’t fit Kim’s description. Why the Confederate rose on the grave? Where is the guy with the long sideburns, the man called Silas Jackson? O’Brien stared at the forest in the distance, the trees falling into deep silhouette, the last flickers of a sunset fanning dying embers of cherry in the bellies of clouds as gray as the old soldier’s uniform.

O’Brien turned to walk to his Jeep when he heard a noise in the cottonwood tree. A scratching noise. From the top of the tree, the raven dropped down, branch-to-branch, stopping on a dead limb twenty feet above O’Brien. The bird tilted its black head, one pale blue eye glowing in a drop of disappearing sunlight, unblinking, staring at O’Brien like a diamond emerging from a fist of coal.