Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  Max leaned over the edge of the dock. She watched an eight-foot alligator swimming from dark water surrounding knobby cypress knees protruding out of the river less than thirty feet from where Max stood. She growled. The gator stopped moving, its yellow eyes and snout visible from our perch above the river. Max lifted her front foot, like a little hunting dog, a pointer. The gator dropped below the surface, and Max whined, looking over her shoulder at me. I said, “Leave well enough alone, kiddo.”

  Watching the river dress in the colors of the morning, I tried to remove the girl's face from my thoughts. An osprey dropped straight down out of the hard blue sky, plunging into the center of the river and hooking something in its talons. Within seconds, the bird was beating its massive wings, gaining altitude, its claws deep in the back of a wriggling bass.

  My cell buzzed. I pulled it out of my pocket and read the text message. It was from an old friend, Dave Collins.

  I just heard your voice on the morning TV news report, at least I think it was you. Police released a recording from someone who called 911 to report a fight last night. The caller used the phone of the guys he beat up to call 911. Could be mistaken, but the voice on the phone … it remotely sounded like you, Sean. Are you OK? What’s going on?

  5

  By noon, I’d made the half-hour drive from my place on the river to Ponce Marina south of Daytona Beach. I’d called the marina boatyard before I left, and they’d begun the process of lowering Jupiter back into her slip. Max and I pulled into the gravel and oyster shell parking lot, the popcorn crack of shells snapping under the tires. The teasing smells of blackened grouper, garlic shrimp, and mesquite greeted us from the Tiki Bar, an open-air restaurant adjacent to the marina office. Max's eyes ignited. She was now more Pavlov's dog than mine, her eyes wide, pacing in her seat, her nostrils sucking in molecules of food scents. She uttered one of her half barks, now more of a command.

  “Chill,” I said, lifting Max up, tucking her under one arm and carrying a bag of groceries in the other arm. “You mind your manners in the restaurant. No begging. If not, the board of health will hunt you down, the county will pass anti-dog laws, and it'll be plain dog food forevermore.” She glanced up at me, her brown eyes suspicious.

  I was being generous referring to the Tiki Bar as a restaurant. They served food, but it was a secondary item on a menu that featured thirty different craft beers and twenty brands of rum, along with all the other adult beverages.

  The restaurant was somewhere between rustic and rundown, but it had character. The rough-hewn wooden floors, made with railroad crossties, and long-since worn into a smooth finish, were stained with twenty-five years of bar graffiti, mixed from a palette of spilled beer, blood, sweat, and a few tears. The Tiki Bar was built on stilts, fifteen feet above the harbor water at high tide. It had no real windows. Most of the year its plastic isinglass siding was rolled up and tied off. The result was a cross-breeze that kept the flies to a minimum and allowed a maximum opportunity for the scent of grilled seafood to drift over a marina community of at least two hundred boats. That's marketing using all the senses. And it worked because the place was usually packed.

  Max and I walked around a sunburned family for four standing at the entrance, debating items listed on a plastic menu stapled to a six-by-six beam, their Jersey shore accents getting as hot as their scorched skin. “Try the grilled pompano,” I said, smiling and stepping around them.

  “Hey Miss Maxie!” said Kim Davis, the Tiki Bar day manager. She came out from behind the bar and greeted us, taking Max into her arms and cuddling her, Max licking Kim's brown cheeks. “Gimme kisses, sweetheart.” Kim was radiant, caramel-colored eyes animated. She was in her early forties, genuine smile, shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair, and flawless skin to match. She wore tight, faded jeans that accentuated her curvaceous hips, and a T-shirt with a graphic image of a doe-eyed, blushing oyster that read:

  Eat 'em Raw at the Tiki Bar

  Ponce Inlet, Florida

  She said, “I saw Bobby and his crew putting your boat back in the water.” She glanced through the open isinglass and smiled. “Looks like Jupiter's still floating. Nick, whether they wanted his help or not, assisted or rather insisted on helping.” She set Max on the wooden floor and handed her a piece of cheese.

  I said, “You're one of the reasons she's turning her nose up at dog food.”

  Kim smiled. “That's because she knows she's not a dog. She's a princess.”

  “She's spoiled.”

  “A girl needs to be spoiled from time to time. Makes her feel special.” Kim held her brown eyes on mine for a moment, a perfect eyebrow raised slightly over her right eye.

  I nodded. “What can I say, Kimberly?”

  “Sean, you know what a woman really wants. It's some--”

  “Hey Kim, turn up the TV, will you?” A grizzled, retired charter boat captain, face whiskered and scarred from sun cancer surgeries, his forearms the color of saddle leather, sipped from a can of Bud and pointed to the television above the bar. “They got something on the TV ‘bout that killin' at the carnival.”

  Kim picked the remote control off the bar and pressed the button for sound. The images were of a county fairground, parked police cruisers, flashing blue lights, emergency medics moving with no sense of urgency, carnies standing in the background, smoking and hiding their faces from cameras as the coroner loaded the body into a white van. The body was covered with a sheet, a baseball-sized dark red color in the chest area.

  The picture cut to a TV reporter. “Police are saying that the man, whose identity is being withheld until his family is notified, was found dead with an ice pick in his chest. An autopsy will be performed. They say that no witnesses have come forth; however, one of the carnival workers said the deceased man was last seen with a young woman who also works for the carnival as a ticket taker.” A picture of a woman cut to the screen. The reporter continued, “Police are looking for nineteen-year-old Courtney Burke, who they say apparently left the scene sometime after the man was stabbed to death. They are not calling the young woman a suspect; they simply say she's a person of interest and are trying to find her for questioning. Authorities say the murder is the third in six months near carnival sites. So the question right now is this: do police have a serial killer, a carny killer, somewhere out there? And is nineteen-year-old Courtney Burke part of the equation? From the Volusia County Fairgrounds, Todd Guskin, Channel Two News.”

  I stared at the screen, my mind flashing through every second of the dialogue I had with Courtney Burke, the blood on her T-shirt, Celtic necklace she wore, the way she pushed her dark hair behind her ears, and those compelling and frightened eyes. Even in the picture of her on the television screen, her eyes drew you in to them. Kim looked at me, lifting her eyebrows, her face filled with questions. “Sean, do you know her, the girl they're looking for in connection with that murder of murders?”

  “I don't really know her.”

  “Oh my God. But you’ve met her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where? What happened? Maybe I don't want to know.”

  6

  The sun had been up from more than an hour when an African-American woman, on her way to teach school, saw Courtney Burke walking on the side of the road through the Ocala National Forest. She slowed to a near stop, looked at the girl through the open passenger-side window and said, “Sweetheart, you okay? Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

  During the long night, Courtney had walked more than twenty miles, staying off the road when she saw headlights in the distance, reappearing and walking on the shoulder of the highway after the car or truck had passed. Exhausted, she had fought with mosquitoes and almost stepped on a cottonmouth water moccasin at daybreak when she stopped to pee behind the brush within a few feet of the river that ran along part of highway. Courtney stopped walking, looked at the woman behind the wheel and said, “I’m fine, thank you.”

  The woman, early fifties, touch of gray in her hair, took
in Courtney from head to toe. “I don’t believe you’re fine. I believe you could use some help right about now. You’re a sad looking site, girl. Now get in the car before you make me late to teach my third grade class.”

  Courtney nodded, bit her lower lip for a moment, and got into the car.

  The woman said, “Sweet Jesus, looks like the bugs had a field day with you. Maybe I ought to take you to the DeLand Medic-Clinic. You can get something to help with the swelling.”

  “I’ve been mosquito bit before. I’ll survive.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Looks like you have been walking all night. What happened? Did you get in a fight with your boyfriend and jump out of the car in the middle of nowhere?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, you picked a fine place for a walk. This forest has a history, and it’s not too good.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Then why on earth are you way out here, child?”

  “Tryin' to find somebody.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Just somebody from my past.”

  “I understand.” The woman drove in silence, driving under boughs of live oak branches stretching across the highway, sunlight poured through the limbs and thick leaves in funnels of gold. A white-tailed deer, a doe, less than twenty feet off the highway, stood and stared. Then the doe ran through a shaft of light, like an apparition caught in the burst from the flash of a camera.

  The woman smiled and said, “I see that mama deer at least twice a week. I know it's the same deer ‘cause of the diamond-shaped white patch on her throat. I feel sorry for the poor thing. Her baby, a spotted fawn, was hit by a car a couple of months ago right back there. I think that young mama is still in mourning for her baby.” She glanced over at Courtney. “Tell me, child, where's your family, where's your mama?”

  Courtney folded her arms and stared out the front windshield, her face filled with masked thoughts, the mottled sunlight capturing the vivid color changes in her eyes. “She's dead.”

  “How about the rest of your family, do they know where you are?”

  “I always wanted a real family, but that never happened. The only one who ever gave a shit about me was my grandmother.”

  “Does she know you're here?”

  “No. She's pretty sick.”

  “Call her. Let her know you're alive and you're okay.”

  “I left my cell back at–” Courtney paused and turned to the woman. “Why do you care? I don't mean to come across rude, but I don't see much hope in people.”

  “I care because you're hurting. It's plain as the skeeter bites on your cheeks. There's a lot of hope, lot of love in people. You'll see it if you look for it.”

  “What I see in many people is dark stuff. Mean stuff. They try to hide it, but it's there, right under their skin, flowin' in their blood.”

  “Who hurt you so bad?”

  Courtney was silent

  The woman nodded. “What's so heavy on your mind? I don't want to sound forward, baby, but are you pregnant?”

  “No, and I'm not a baby.”

  “And you're not all grown up either. My name's Lois. What's your name?”

  “Courtney.”

  Lois stopped at a crossroads, turned right, and headed toward DeLand. She said, “Are you hungry, Courtney?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you have any money?”

  “A little.”

  “I have an idea.” They entered the town of DeLand, turning onto New York Street. Lois slowed her car down in front of a red brick building and said, “I have twenty five third graders waiting for me about five blocks from here, and I'm late. I have to get to class.” She gestured toward the old building, green ivy heavy on one side. “This is the Good Samaritan Clinic. You can get help in there. My friend, Carla, runs it. Tell her Lois Timbers sent you. They're great, caring people. You can get anything from a shower to a hot meal, even a bed. Okay?”

  Courtney placed her hand on the door handle, started to get out of the car, and watched a police cruiser drive slowly down the street. She turned back to Lois and managed to smile. “I'm feeling a little sick now.” Courtney lowered her head down.

  The woman glanced from Courtney to the police cruiser that had turned right at the next street. She asked, “What happened to you? The police are looking for you, right? Why?”

  7

  Lois Timber's cell rang in her purse. She reached for it and answered. After a few seconds, she said to the caller, “I'm sorry I'm running late. I had to give a friend a ride to town. Yes, I'll be at the school in a few minutes. Please see if Carol can watch my class until them.” She looked at Courtney. “Whatever's happened to you, you need to go to the authorities and tell them. Don't run.”

  Courtney nodded and blew out a breath. “You wanted me to call my grandmother. Do you have a phone I can use for a second?”

  “Absolutely. This is worth me being tardy to my own class.” She lifted a cell phone from her purse.

  Courtney took it, opened the car door, and said, “I won't take long. Just need to make the call in private.”

  “I understand.”

  She stepped out of the car and into the shade of a large pine tree next to the sidewalk. She punched numbers and waited. The morning turned warm, a mockingbird called out from the tree, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air. The voice of an older woman said, “Hello.”

  “Grandma …”

  “Courtney, I've been so worried about you. Where are you?”

  “Something bad has happened.”

  “What honey? What happened?” The woman coughed.

  “A man's been killed. He was stabbed to death. It was horrible. I tried to help him, tried to stop the bleeding. But I couldn't. I didn't know what to do, so I just ran. I had to get out of there.”

  “Courtney, where are you?”

  “Florida. I think the town's called DeLand. I was trying to find the Celtic torc he stole from you. I heard he was workin' the carnival circuit. I was getting closer. Then all this happened.”

  “I told you to stay away from him. He's more evil than you can understand.” She coughed into the phone. “Courtney, listen to me. You have to go to the police. Tell them what happened. Then you come on back home. You understand?”

  “I can't go back there. You know why.” Courtney saw a police cruiser slowly coming down the street in her direction. She turned her back to the cruiser. “Grandma, I gotta go.”

  “Courtney! Courtney, come home.”

  “I love you. I’ll call you.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  Courtney disconnected, opened the car door, leaned in and said, “Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate you stopping.” She cut her eyes to the right and watched the police cruiser continue down the street, slowing in front of a Dairy Queen restaurant and turning around in the parking lot.

  Lois said, “I hope you're gonna be okay. The women in the clinic will help you.”

  Courtney nodded. “I appreciate what you did, stopping for me. Bye.” She closed the car door, turned her back toward the cruiser and walked to the front entrance. From the reflection on the dark glass doors, she could see the police car pulling up to the curb.

  Courtney entered the clinic. A receptionist looked up from the magazine she was reading behind the desk. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I'm here to see Carla.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, Lois Timbers sent me.”

  “Please, have a seat. I'll see if Mrs. Flowers is available.”

  Courtney looked through the front glass. Two officers were getting out of the car, one speaking into a radio microphone clipped to his sleeve. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

  The receptionist pointed to her left. “Through that door. It'll be on your right.”

  Courtney smiled. She walked in the direction she was given, but turned down a hallway that led the opposite way from the front door. She stepped qu
ickly over the polished tile floor, ignoring a nurse who asked if she could help her. Courtney found the rear exit and bolted out the door. She ran down a long alleyway. A frightened a black cat jumped from a garbage can, the aluminum lid falling to the concrete. The sound of Courtney's hard soles echoed off the old walls between the buildings and the rattle of dripping air conditioners. Drops of warm water hit her in the face. She ran harder, turning the corner at the end of the alley.

  A city bus was pulling away from a stop at the corner. Courtney banged on the bus door. The startled driver opened the door and Courtney paid the fare, taking a seat in the back. She noticed many of the passengers were about her age, college students. She rode for more than ten minutes, and when the students began getting off the bus, she followed suit. She found herself on the campus of Stetson University.

  The campus was set in acres of well-manicured grass. Caladiums and oleanders were planted behind rows of border grass. Squirrels hopped between stately old oaks, the blooming jonquils and azaleas like perfume to Courtney. The red brick buildings were majestic, reminding her of Old South plantation mansions she'd seen in part of South Carolina. She watched students walk by talking and laughing about some event they shared together earlier. Some rode skateboards, iPods in ears, backpacks slung over their shoulders. Two male students tossed a Frisbee.

  Courtney sat on a park bench beneath an oak tree and watched them for a minute. She could hear church bells in the distance. The smell of grilling barbeque chicken was in the breeze. Suddenly she felt a deep sense of sorrow, as if she was an absolute stranger in a strange world and was just passing through, never belonging, never achieving. Never becoming, only witnessing from afar. And she felt so alone.