Black River (Sean O'Brien Book 6)

by Tom Lowe

  She thought about Sean O’Brien. Thought about calling him just to hear his voice. She’d watched the news bulletins flashing across the TV screens in the Tiki Bar. Why was it all happening…and now? So many years after the Civil War. Where are you right now, Sean? Why can’t we just see a movie and have dinner? Isn’t that what normal people do? He’s not normal. Never will be. That’s all it is and how it always will be. Accept it, accept the man Sean is…or don’t accept it. Maybe he’d found the painting. Maybe police had found the killer. It all started when the old man came to the Tiki Bar with that picture. She thought about the beautiful woman in the long dress, a rose in her left hand.

  Kim reached for her door handle and froze.

  It was on front windshield. Against the glass. Propped up and held down by one windshield wiper.

  A blood red rose.

  “No! Hell no!” she blurted. She set her purse on the hood, reaching for the rose. She ripped up the rose in dozens of pieces, red petals catching the breeze, falling all around her car.

  O’Brien stepped out of the screened-in entrance door to the Tiki Bar, turned right and walked quickly toward his Jeep. He could hear some of the customers clinking beer mugs and singing the lyrics to Margaretville.

  He didn’t see Kim’s car in the immediate vicinity. He wished she’d been in the Tiki Bar so he could have spoken to her, to touch base, even for a minute, before he began the hunt for the rogue British agent, James Fairmont. O’Brien unlocked the door to his Jeep and hit the button to Kim’s phone. It began ringing.

  Kim could smell the residue from the rose petals on her fingers. Her phone rang inside her purse on the hood of her car. As she reached for the purse, she thought she heard something. She never saw the man. Never saw him come from behind the dumpsters. He approached her back. The barrel of a pistol shoved into her ribs. His other hand gripping her left shoulder. He said, “Show some respect! You’re tearing up a gift I gave you. Ripping the Confederate rose to shreds. Where’s your manners, woman? Get in the truck!”

  Silas Jackson’s breath reeked of cigar, marijuana and whiskey. She looked at her purse on the hood of her car. Less than three feet away. If felt like three miles. The ringing of her phone stopped.

  He pulled her. “Remember me? I sure remember you. Been thinking about you. Get in my truck.”

  “Let me go! Just end it now. We both walk away. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He laughed. “Who you gonna tell? Your boyfriend, Sean O’Brien? That boy got a hard lesson coming. He ain’t taking care of a fine filly like you, is he?”

  “He just called. We have a date. I’m just running home to freshen up.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re low priority to O’Brien, and you know it. I’m gonna compensate. A good lookin’ woman like you needs attention. No, you require it or you’ll rust inside.” Jackson slammed her car door. “We’ll bring your pocketbook, darlin’. To leave it here would let your boyfriend know you’ve been taken. No woman ever leaves her purse. It’s genetically impossible.” He grabbed her purse, still holding the gun to her ribcage. “Let’s walk to my truck.”

  He opened the driver’s side door on the truck, pushing her onto the seat. “Slide over, unless you want to sit next to me.” He grinned. Kim slid to the far side of the seat. He set the purse in the center between them and started the truck, backing out, the date palms and Australian Pines casting long shadows across the parking lot.

  A bread delivery truck pulled into the lot. Kim grabbed her purse, reaching inside. She pull out the .22, pointing the barrel at Jackson’s head

  Was the safety on? Pull the trigger. Nothing. Jackson’s eyes were wide, cruel. His mouth forming a sneer. He grabbed the short gun barrel, twisting. He backhanded Kim hard in her lower left jaw. Her head slammed against the window. She saw the glint of the lighthouse in the horizon, saw the stars the night she and Sean slept under them on his boat Jupiter, anchored in a remote cove near Key Largo. Blood filled her mouth. A tooth loose.

  Then darkness faded over the marina, and Kim felt herself slipping into the black of a deep and dark ocean.

  O’Brien backed out of the parking spot. He used the phone’s Bluetooth connection to follow the coordinates to the Jacksonville Landing. When he glanced up, at the far end of the parking lot more than one hundred yards away, he caught a glimpse of a truck pulling out of the lot. The driver barely tapped the brakes as he left the marina, pulling onto the road. From the distance, O’Brien thought one of the brake lights weren’t working. That last time I saw that was…was on the truck driven by Silas Jackson.

  O’Brien dialed Kim’s number. “Hi, you’ve reached Kim. I can’t come to my phone. You know what to do at the beep.”

  “Kim, it’s Sean. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to—”

  Make a legal U-turn on Ponce Inlet Road,” the voice-activated GPS said. “Proceed toward Highway Four.”

  From a distance, it resembled a Hollywood premiere. The riverfront in the Jacksonville Landing was filled with a large crowd. America II, the star of the gala evening, was bathed in warm lights. The sailing ship was magnificent, more than one hundred feet in length, its three masts towering in the night sky. Searchlights crisscrossed the dark. Hundreds of spectators stood behind long velvet ropes, anticipating the arrival of the stars from the movie Black River. A visible police contingent stayed close to the stanchions, keeping fans at bay. Security, former Special Ops, wore tuxedoes, black ties, and earpieces in their ears. Pistols under their jackets.

  Dozens of news camera operators stood shoulder-to-shoulder on a large, high-rise platform, cameras rolling, a few television reporters doing live shots and interviewing anyone who worked on the movie or had a role in the movie. All the cable news networks were there, the syndicated entertainment shows, their anchors and field reporters awaiting the arrival of the film stars.

  The stretch limos began pulling up in a convoy fashion, A-list actors getting out of the limos. Designer gowns. Dazzling jewels. Cameras flashing. Fans squealing and applauding as each celebrity paraded by them. Executive producers, directors, agents and publicists all mingling, doing live interviews and then strolling down the red carpet, boarding the yacht, camera lights popping.

  “Is that Matt Damon?” asked one woman, smiling and gently punching her boyfriend in his side. “Get his picture!”

  O’Brien stood on an adjacent dock less than one hundred feet away. He watched the parade too. But he wasn’t watching the actors and the glitterati entourage. He was looking for an assassin. The one thing that James Fairmont could not disguise, could not change, was his height. O’Brien scanned the invited guests for men six-two or taller. There were not many.

  A dozen Civil War re-enactors, some wearing Confederate uniforms, others in Union attire, the women dressed in period gowns, made their way toward the schooner. They mixed with the multitude, stopping to pose for pictures, arm-and-arm with fans.

  O’Brien walked down the steps leading from the dock to the parking lot, blending in with the crowd, spotting security, glancing at every face. Searching for the men tall enough to look him directly in the eye. Through the long burst of applauses, through the screaming fans, through artificial movement of the jet set, O’Brien spotted Frank Sheldon.

  Sheldon was dressed in a black tux, salt and pepper hair glimmering under the TV lights. He walked with the director of Black River, two publicists, and two of the film’s executive producers. They stopped and did live interviews on camera.

  After the last interview, Sheldon stood behind a podium. He thanked the large throng of people for coming out. He acknowledged and thanked the actors, executive producers, and the producer, director and writer. And he added, “This is a great night, not only for the movie, Black River, which just wrapped and will be premiering during the holidays, but for the city of Jacksonville which is the inaugural homeport for one of the most historically significant sailing schooners ever built. The ship behind us, America II.”

  The audienc
e erupted into applause. “The original schooner, as you may know, won the race that was forever to be known as the America’s Cup after her triumphant win against the British in 1850. A decade later, the schooner was commissioned by the Confederacy and used in the Civil War. Tomorrow, this replica will set sail for England and create some history of her own.” More applause. Sheldon smiled and nodded. “Tonight I’m thrilled and honored that some of our country’s greatest filmmakers and storytellers will become part of America II’s story as we sail a short distance down the St. Johns River, returning in a few hours to this very dock. Thank you all. As an investor in Black River, I urge you to see the movie. It’ll be great.”

  It was during the glut of camera flashes, the applause, that O’Brien saw a taller man merging within a contiguous montage of people, all invited guests, politicians, movie moguls, but the man was one of the tallest. He had dark hair, parted on the left side, wire-rimmed glasses. O’Brien could tell that the nose and bone structure in the face matched the picture Alistair Hornsby had sent.

  O’Brien studied the man’s face and body language for a few more seconds, the easy smile, avoiding handshakes or direct eye contact. Instead, the man’s eyes moved beyond the crowd, circling back to Frank Sheldon as Sheldon and his party walked the red carpet and boarded America II.

  O’Brien called Dave Collins and said, “I’ve spotted James Fairmont.”

  “Where?”

  “At Frank Sheldon’s huge party. It’s a wrap party for the movie Black River and a party to officially launch his schooner. It’s a PR party.”

  “Did Fairmont spot you?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s carrying a leather satchel. I’m betting a king’s ransom that inside it he has the diamond and the Civil War document. Either Sheldon won the auction, or Fairmont has plans to deliver the goods and then double-cross Sheldon.”

  “What if they’ve worked together and Sheldon is delivering the items to Prime Minister Hannes when Sheldon docks at the Port of London.”

  “I think I know how we’ll find out?”

  “How?”

  “Dave, call Hornsby. Give him Sheldon’s cell number. I wrote it down. It’s on that fishing brochure right next to Paul Wilson’s number. I’m sure M16 can tap Sheldon’s mobile phone and listen in, using Sheldon’s phone as a hidden microphone. The voyage down the river and back is scheduled for four hours. I’ll text you when I see Fairmont disappear with Sheldon sometime during the floating party. They’ll probably do the deal in Sheldon’s private captain’s quarters. If we’re lucky, we’ll get it recorded and turn the tables on the blackmailer or blackmailers. The earlier Hornsby can set up things on his end, the better.”

  “Be very careful, Sean. Between Sheldon’s formidable security team and what we know Fairmont can do, you’re about to sail down some extremely dangerous waters. There is literally no one on board that can do anything to help you. If they compromise you, you’ll never be seen again and Sheldon will simply deny you were ever on his guest list, much less on his yacht.”

  “Watch for my text. I have a feeling it’ll come soon, probably about the time most of his guests have downed their third crystal glass of Dom Perignon. Dave, I’ve tried to reach Kim. She’s not calling or texting.”

  “I detect more worry in your voice than I’ve heard in a while.”

  “I’m worrying because I spotted a truck at the far end of the marina parking lot. I may have been mistaken, but I thought I noticed that the left brake light wasn’t working.”

  “And what would be the significance of that?”

  “Silas Jackson drove a pickup truck, and the left brake light was burned out.”

  “Oh…I’ll see if I can find her. Nick and I will go to her home if need be.”

  “Thank you.” O’Brien disconnected, walked behind a group of studio suits and their wives in designer gowns as they made the way down the red carpet. He glanced up at the full moon rising over the river, wondering if Joe Billie got his note and hoping he would not need Billie’s help.

  Kim Davis looked at the moon over the tree line deep in the Ocala National Forest, where Silas Jackson’s hunter camp bathed in the moonlight. As he stopped the truck she said, “You don’t have to do this…to risk your life. You can let me go, I’ll walk back.”

  He shut off the truck’s ignition switch, the motor ticking in the dark. He turned to her and said, “Walk back? You’d never make it out of here alive. There’s panthers. Lots of mean damn bears. More poisonous snakes per square foot than any national forest in the country. And then there’s the crazies. The forest folk who live out here. Most ought to be locked up. They drift in with the seasons. Word gets around, they know not to come to my camp. All it took was putting a shrunken head on a bamboo pole next to my flagpole for a couple of weeks. That got their attention.”

  Kim pressed against the truck door. “You’re insane.”

  He stared at her, the moonlight pouring through the truck’s front windshield. He rolled down his window, a singsong chorus of cicadas reverberated through the woods. “I might be insane, but honey I’m not dumb. Your boyfriend O’Brien is dumb. He came onto my turf and challenged me. He, Miss Kim, drew first blood. It’s in your honor that I protect you. I’d duel to the death if I thought O’Brien would do it honorable and pace twenty-five steps before turning and firing.”

  She said nothing, slapping at a mosquito on her arm. “Can you put your window up? Mosquitoes are biting me.”

  “That’s because you have a fine bloodline. You’re a reflection of the Old South, you just don’t know it.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I know a lot about you, woman. I know the foods you like to eat. The wine you like to drink. Mostly Cabernet. The kind of coffee you like, Folgers. You still make it the right way, one pot at a time. Not using those little pods. I even know the time of your last menstrual cycle.”

  Kim’s eyes opened wider. Her pulse pounded. “It was you! Your freak! Going through my garbage. You’re sick.”

  “I’m a trash archeologist. Much of a person’s life, their past, present, and some of their future, can be told in a bag of their trash. Their diets. The meds they’re taking. The money they owe. The cycles of life are in the trash. Week after week. I know what kind of condom your boyfriend O’Brien uses, and I know your cycle is right about now. Your eggs are dropping and you’re ripe for conception.” He reached for her. She raked her fingernails down his arm, opening the truck door and running hard into the forest.

  Frank Sheldon spared no expense. The entire open deck of America II was a floating party, a display of luxurious carousing flavored by the best decadence money could buy. White-jacketed waiters carried silver trays overflowing with finger-food cuts of beef wellington, chilled king crab claws, Beluga caviar and dozens of other gourmet foods. They strolled around the invited guests, stopping to serve the food and answer questions.

  The rich and famous sipped Dom Perignon champagne, premium vodkas, gins and whiskeys. Wine, from the finest vineyards in the world, flowed from crystal glasses. Some of the guests danced to a Caribbean band performing near the stern. Others ambled along the deck, the long schooner quietly slipping out of Jacksonville for a short excursion down river.

  Sean O’Brien lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and wandered the length of the vast sailboat, his eyes shifting from face to face, hearing snippets of conversation, and listening for prompts of things to come. He watched two bearded Civil War re-enactors posing for pictures with the actors and spouses of actors, studio executives and movie investors. The night breeze smelled of expensive perfumes, grilled beef, exotic truffles, sushi and spilled champagne.

  Near the bow, O’Brien overheard a shapely blonde actress giggle and smile at her date in a tux, his brown hair neatly parted on the left, gelled and sculpted from a page of the Great Gatsby playbook. She said, “I want to take my heels off and go stand on that long board on the front of the boa
t like Kate Winslett did in Titanic.”

  He grinned. “In the olden days of sailing that’s the place where the statue of the naked chick was placed. Mariners believed it kept the sea serpents away.”

  “Maybe I’ll stand out there naked before the night is over.” She downed a glass of champagne, pointing to a half dozen people shaking hands with a silver-haired executive producer, the nightlights of the city growing distant in the background. “That’s Lou Kaufman. His movies never lose money. I have to be introduced to him. You must introduce me, Darrin.” She trotted off, her date trailing behind her.

  Then O’Brien heard another voice. Frank Sheldon. He worked the crowd, making toasts, telling jokes, patting backs, kissing beautiful starlets on their powdered cheeks, his eyes lingering on one statuesque brunette, breasts spilling out of a low-cut, short black dress. Sheldon whispered something into her ear. She smiled, raised a flawless eyebrow above one blue eye and nodded. Sheldon moved on, continuing to be the perfect host.

  O’Brien trailed him. Staying out of the direct current of people surrounding Sheldon, but close enough to watch for someone he knew was watching Sheldon. Somewhere on the one-hundred-foot schooner was James Fairmont. O’Brien stopped at a serving table, white linen, black caviar and oysters on the half-shell on a bed of ice. He thought about Nick for a second as he picked up a small cocktail fork and slipped it inside his sports coat pocket.

  O’Brien glanced at the moon through the ship’s masts. He saw a bat circling above the tallest mast. Then he heard a British accent, like a murmur in the crowd. A man’s voice. He said, “I’d really enjoy seeing the rest of the vessel.”

  O’Brien looked around, watched through the throngs of people, the flashes of jewelry under the moonlight, the power brokering, the actors still acting—forever testing for the next part. The agents, managers, studios heads, the assistants—all moving to the synthetic rhythm of a bad life script. On the stern, the band played on as America II sailed deeper south on a real black river.