by Tom Lowe
O’Brien stepped a few feet closer to Jackson. “But did you see the man in the BMW following you?”
Jackson raised his eyebrows. “I said end the bullshit.”
“He drove a BMW 328. Gray, like your jacket. I figure someone who can afford a car like that might be in the market for the diamond you stole. Maybe he was tailing you because you didn’t live up to your end of the deal. Holding back and not delivering either the Civil War contract or the diamond.” O’Brien didn’t blink. Staring hard into Jackson’s eyes, looking for any sign of cover or deception.
“You definitely got balls comin’ out here and accusing me of theft.”
“It gets better, Silas, I’m accusing you of murder.”
Jackson said nothing. Eyes scorching.
“You killed a hotel clerk before breaking into Professor Ike Kirby’s room, shooting him, and stealing the Civil War contract.”
Jackson shook his head. “You’re one sick puppy.”
“You couldn’t let that Civil War document become public, could you? That was a sacred, confidential document that was helping to finance a cause you still believe in, right?”
Jackson said nothing. A deer fly orbited his head once before landing on his neck.
O’Brien lowered his voice, just above a whisper. “You know that diamond Jack Jordan found was, of course, Confederate property. And now, all these years later, you could cash it in to buy the manpower and weapons you need to take back the Union – or to split it. The war isn’t over, correct, Silas? Any killing can be justified for the rebirth of the South and the cause all those men gave their lives for, right?”
“You’re fuckin’ right! But you’re not gonna get me to confess to something I didn’t do, although I salute the man who did.”
“Cory Nelson says it was you.”
“Nelson’s a damn liar!”
“He says the plan was he’d take out Jack Jordan—steal the diamond and you’d steal the Civil War contract. Nelson only had to murder one man. You killed two. Where’s the diamond and the contract?” O’Brien stepped closer, staring directly into Jackson eyes, which were black as the water at the base of the giant cypress trees.
Jackson tightened his neck muscles as the deer fly bit into his skin. “I answer to nobody. I knock tyranny on its ass. Whatever it takes. Who the fuck are you?”
“That’s not important. What is important—it’s the decisions you make, Silas, because those decisions have a real bad effect on others. I’m betting you have the diamond and the contract hidden with the painting you stole from the film set.”
“What painting?”
“The one you are infatuated with, the one of the woman painted at the time of the Civil War. You told others you believed the woman in the painting would be reincarnated. And you believe she’s now Kim Davis. You left the Confederate roses on her property.”
Jackson said nothing. Staring, eyes fiery.
“Don’t go near her again.”
“You got a claim on that woman? I doubt it. I’ll ask her sometime.”
“That’d be a bad mistake.”
“Maybe I’m a bad man.” He slapped the deer fly on his neck, crushing it in the palm of his hand, without taking his eyes off of O’Brien. Then he looked down, opening his right hand. Black dirt packed under the long fingernails, bruised and damaged cuticles at the nail base. O’Brien stared at a deer fly wing wedged under Jackson’s fingernail on his index finger.
Jackson licked his thin lips and said, “This here fly is a female. Only the female deer fly drinks blood. The male visits flowers, spreading pollen. The female uses a razor-sharp mouth and jaws to cross-slice the skin, sort of makes a tiny X. When the blood rises to the surface, she puts her face in and drinks her fill. You ever drink blood—the elixir of life? The alchemy between a man and a woman is the continuation of the bloodline. The true scent of a woman, her blood, is the same thing the male deer fly is programmed to do when he enters a flower. Think about that, whoever the fuck you are. You visiting Kim Davis’ flower?” Jackson grinned. “I’m next. I see you don’t rile up too easy. That’ll change soon.”
O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the move.
Jackson sneered. “I don’t like your face. Don’t like your eyes. They’re corrosive like you got acid boiling under your irises. What’s behind those eyes—the face of yours, huh? Before I’m done with you, we’ll carve a big ol’ X between your shoulder blades. Just like the deer fly. We’ll tie you up under a sycamore tree, in front of a mirror me and the boys will hang from a limb. We’ll cut you right around the hairline and then peel the skin off your face. It’s just like skinnin’ a catfish. I need to see what’s behind your lying face.” He used his left hand to lift the dead insect, slowly stretching his left arm. O’Brien cut his eyes up to Jackson, waiting for the split second hint. He didn’t wait long.
Just as Jackson dropped the deer fly to the mud, he used his right hand to reach under his jacket. In that second, O’Brien pulled his Glock, taking one long stride. The barrel pointing straight between Jackson eyes. “Give me another reason!”
Jackson stared at the barrel. No fear. Eyes cool, detached.
O’Brien said, “Use your left hand…very slowly reach under your jacket and lift out whatever you’re packing. Then drop it next to your blood-sucking deer fly and take three steps backward.”
Jackson did as ordered, the .38 dropping in the mud. He looked at O’Brien and said, “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk. I came damn close to killing Jack Jordan on account of our heated disagreements about the war and that documentary he was makin,’ but I didn’t do it. Somebody else did. And I’m glad they shot the bastard.”
“Where’s the painting?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you sell it with the diamond and contract?”
“If I had that contract, I’d burn the mother fucker.”
O’Brien heard the rumble of a diesel engine. He looked over Jackson’s shoulder to see a black pickup truck coming down the road, mud flying in the air from the back tires. It was the same truck that met Jackson at the jail complex. Same men in it right down to the tattoo and fur on one beefy arm protruding from the open driver’s side window.
Jackson slowly turned his head, watching the truck approach. As he started to turn back toward O’Brien, he grinned and said, “Don’t know if you believe in providence having any bearing on man’s survival in the cosmos, but your luck just ran out. Whatcha gonna do now, peckerwood?”
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, t
he 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.”
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.
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.”