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

by Lowe, Tom

  “Nick, where’s your laptop?”

  “Right here.” He reached beneath the coffee table, under a stack of boating and cooking magazines, pulled out a MacBook Pro, turned it on, then handed it to me,

  Dave said, “You sounded a little more civil with your detective friend. Did he come through after the DNA debacle?”

  “He said the number I lifted from Isaac Solminski’s phone is coming from somewhere in a town called Gibsonton.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “South of Tampa.”

  “You trying to find it on the map?” Nick asked.

  “That’s part of it. I’m also looking for a hotel near some railroad tracks. When I was talking with the guy on the phone, I heard a large dog barking and a train very close by to wherever he was at the time.” I quickly found train routes on an Internet map. The nearest location of tracks, relative to Gibsonton, was close to Highway 41, over a body of water called Bullfrog Creek. I checked for motels on both the north and south sides of the waterway. I stood and reach for my Glock.

  “Where you going?” Dave asked.

  “Gibsonton. Should be able to make it in about four hours.”

  “You think Courtney’s there?”

  “Maybe. Somebody’s there who knows Solminski. He’s made too many calls to that number since Courtney ran away. He could have sent her there … to someone and someplace he feels is safe.”

  Dave stood and stared out the window towards the parking lot. “Looks like the storm chased the news media lads and lasses away. Storm’s moving west, so you’ll be traveling with it. Here’s something to keep in mind, Sean: Andrea Logan is frightened. Who knows how well she can disguise it. But if there’s any reason to suspect she may do or say something that will blemish her husband’s electability, you can bet they’ll try to catch it before it becomes a liability. That means her phone calls might be tapped. If Andrea’s are, then you can bet yours are or will be, too.”

  Nick sat on the edge of the couch. “So that means they might know about Gibtown, and they fact that’s where Sean’s going to hunt for the girl.”

  Dave nodded. “That’s exactly what it means.”

  I said, “Please keep an eye on Max for me.”

  Dave asked, “So you’re still going there tonight?”

  “Yes. The place I found nearest the train track is called the Show-Town Fish Camp. They rent cottages and trailers. I’m going to see if they have a big dog.”

  47

  Courtney Burke finished eating a bowl of tomato soup she’d heated in the microwave, washed dishes, and folded extra towels for Boots. She refused to stay in the trailer for free, and doing some extra work for him was the right thing to do. She heard the 8:00 pm freight train cross the trestle over the creek, and she looked at the clock above the control panel on the microwave.

  Leaving at dawn. Better pack my stuff. She half smiled. There was no stuff to pack. Not really. Another pair of jeans, underwear, and two T-shirts. She tried to remember the last time she wore a dress. Mama’s funeral … that was the last time. God, it felt like a hundred years ago. She thought about her grandmother, thought about what she must be going through listening to the news and all the crazy stuff about the senator’s wife, Sean O’Brien, and how she might be their daughter. Then she heard Boots’ falsetto voice echo in her mind. ‘This may sound like a strange question, but I’m strange, okay? Could your parents have adopted you?’

  She felt hot, air difficult to get deep into her lungs. The last time she had an asthma attack she had been running, running from the carnival after Lonnie was murdered. She’d had her inhaler with her, but lost it later that night when Sean O’Brien kept those men away from her.

  She opened the door to the trailer and stepped outside. The air was a little cooler, but not by much. She stood on the seawall and hugged her bare arms, sucking air into her lungs. Just breathe, stay calm. She looked up and saw a firefly a few feet from her face. Her breathing became easier, back to normal. She bit her lower lip and felt a warm stream of tears roll from her eyes, down her cheeks, falling into the creek. She was so tired, and so alone. She looked up at the moon peeking through the marshes, reflecting from the dark water. There was the solitary hoot of an owl across the creek.

  She turned to go back to the trailer.

  A noise.

  The sound of something moving near the right side of the trailer—close to the canoes. Gun’s too far away—inside. Courtney stood there. Barely breathing. Heart racing. A shadow moved by the garbage can. Gradually, a fat raccoon looked up at her from behind a hard plastic trash can, the black mask around its eyes like a burglar in the night. Courtney smiled. “Hello, Mr. Coon. You scared the dickens outta me. Sorry, but you won’t get much from that. I’ve been eating soup, and we recycle the cans.” The raccoon stood on its hind quarters for a moment, sniffed the breeze off the water, and waddled across the yard.

  Courtney saw lightning in the distance, to the east. Maybe rain will cool things down. She walked back to the trailer, went inside, and locked the door behind her. She undressed and crawled into bed, her mind racing, the heat in the small trailer building. The last sound she heard was the train in the distance crossing the trestle over Bullfrog Creek.

  ***

  She was awakened by another noise. She sat up in bed, the oscillating fan on the dresser pushing hot air around her bedroom. Darn, hardheaded coon. Go away. Then, the sound stopped. She could hear the frogs and cicadas competing in a rousing nocturnal tug-of-war chorus. The sound of thunder rolled a few miles away. How much time before daylight? She tossed and turned on the hard bed, her sheets and flat pillow damp with perspiration.

  How long had it been since the train rolled by, heading to some northern city? An hour? Maybe two? She lay there, wishing for the morning sunlight to slip through the cracks in the venetian blinds. But now it was dark, so dark she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. There was a whine near her ear. A mosquito. She scratched at her forearm and sat up in bed. She flipped on the light, looking around the room for the mosquito. It alighted on her left arm. She smacked it, leaving a red stain of blood the size of a nickel. “Oh crap,” she said, walking into the kitchen to wash the blood off her arm and hand.

  Standing at the sink, she felt it getting harder to breathe, to fill her lungs in the hot trailer. She turned out the light, unfastened the lock on one window, slid the glass up, and put her face close to the screen. The cooler air felt good on her damp skin. She sucked air into her lungs, and closed her eyes a moment.

  A dog barked.

  Fast barking. Courtney recognized it as Clementine the cockatoo. But this wasn’t her normal imitation of a dog bark. It was her frightened mock barking—of a dog agitated, in fear. She remembered what Boots had said: ‘Clementine may be able to imitate sounds, but in her tiny bird brain she has a sixth sense about real threats. Heed her warning.’

  Courtney looked up at the Fish Camp office. The lights were coming on. One … two … lights turned on, then the side floodlights illuminated the perimeter yard. Courtney saw the silhouette of a man standing near the office. She could see a pistol in one hand. Her heart slammed in her chest. She grabbed blue jeans, shimmied into them, and pulled a T-shirt over her head. She took the Beretta out of a drawer and scooped up the keys to the truck. If there was more than one intruder, maybe she could create a diversion to save Boots’ life. She lit a candle on the kitchen table, turned on the gas stove without igniting the pilot light, quietly opened the door, and stepped out into the night.

  Clementine started the barking sounds again. In less than five seconds, the barks ended. Courtney ran by the canoes on blocks, keeping low. She pressed against the wooden fence that went from the trailer up to the office and the circular drive where the truck was parked. The fence was covered in blooming bougainvillea. She tried to keep the orange and tangerine trees between her and whoever had entered where Boots lived and worked. She was shaking. Breathing shallow. Adrenaline pumping into her blo
odstream. A taste like ashes on her tongue. She was frightened for Boots. Was the man inside? Did Boots have his gun? Did he have time to get it?

  She held the Beretta in both hands and stayed in the darkest shadows. Lightning flashed in the distance. In that second, she saw two men enter the office from two different doors. Both had guns.

  Go! Run! Take the keys, jump in the truck. Leave. She fought the strong urge to flee. Run hard and fast to the truck. She remembered one thing her father had taught about hunting deer. ‘You can stalk a buck all day. Maybe never get off a shot. Or you can surprise him from a stand and bring a buck to his knees with a clean shot.’

  She stayed in the long shadows cast by the royal palm trees. Moving closer to the office. She knew the layout. Bedrooms. Kitchen. Bathrooms. Screened porch that served as an aviary. The make-shift lobby. Where would Boots be at the moment? She heard noises—a man yelling. Another man said, “Where’s the girl?” She couldn’t hear Boot’s voice. Then there was a noise that sounded like the thrust of a bottle rocket—a staccato puff sound.

  Within seconds, the two men were coming out of the screened door. She ducked behind a sago palm tree. They ran right by her. Courtney stood, raised the pistol, and aimed. She could hear her father’s voice, his advice about deer hunting. But these were men, not deer. She lowered the Beretta as the men went around to the front of the trailer. She heard them kick in the door. Three seconds later, the trailer exploded in a massive white and orange ball of fire that rose higher than the live oak by the creek.

  Even from the distance, she could feel the heat against her face and exposed arms. She turned and ran into the aviary, stopping at the base of the T-stand. Clementine was on her back, her neck broken. Courtney held her hand to her mouth, tears forming. She ran in the office and froze as she entered the lobby. Boots lay in a pool of dark blood, a single bullet wound between his open eyes.

  “Oh God!” Courtney cried out. She ran backwards, stumbled to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. She picked herself up and ran from the building, hands shaking so much she couldn’t get the key into the truck ignition. She started the engine, pulled away from the circular drive and drove off into the night. When she glanced up into the rearview mirror, the flames looked like the plume of a fiery volcano.

  48

  I didn’t need the GPS to tell me I’d reached my destination. A raging fire told me that. I pulled my Jeep into the circular driveway of Show Time Fish Camp. I drove past a dark SUV near the entrance. Neighbors were spilling out of nearby trailers, wearing pajamas and shocked looks on the faces of what appeared to be mostly retired people. A saw a woman in a red bathrobe hold up her phone. Maybe she’d dialed 911.

  As I parked, I could hear the sound of sirens in the distance. I lifted my Glock from under the seat of the Jeep, got out, and peered in through the open door with a bronze plate on it that spelled: Office. I took one step inside and listened for a few seconds. All I could hear was the crackling of the fire roaring from somewhere beyond the office.

  I held the Glock in both hands. Walked silently. There was a movement out of the right corner of my eye. I aimed the pistol to the floor where a large white and yellow snake crawled over the chest of man who’d been shot in the head. The entrance wound looked to be a small caliber gun, maybe a .22. His lips were blue. No sign of breathing. Open eyes staring up at a ceiling fan. He was a dwarf with some features resembling Isaac Solminski. The snake slithered off the body, through a large pool of blood near the dead man’s head, leaving a bloody S pattern as it crawled across a white tile floor.

  I quietly searched each room. Nothing. No sign of the perp or perps and no sign of Courtney Burke. Beyond the office was what appeared to be a screened-in aviary, filled with orchids, other flowers, and a few birds. I spotted two blue and orange lovebirds sitting on an open perch. I almost stepped on a large white cockatoo lying dead on the floor near a bushy philodendron.

  I ran outside as rain began to fall over the area, the water doing little to douse a fire more than two-hundred feet away from the office. I sprinted through citrus trees towards the firestorm. It looked like a trailer or mobile home was burning. I searched for a garden hose. Nothing. The thought of Courtney Burke trapped in that incinerator made my hands feel as hot as the flames against my face. The trailer was less than twenty-five feet from a river, and no way to get water from it. Where was Courtney?

  My heart hammered in my chest. I felt absolutely powerless. I assumed police would be here probably before I could leave the neighborhood. The trailer was so engulfed in a maelstrom of flames, if anyone was inside it they would be cremated. And there was nothing I could do for the dead man inside the office.

  The air smelled of soot, burnt rubber and plastic—and something I smelled on the scene of a plane crash in the Everglades … charred flesh. There was not a doubt in my mind that someone died in the fire, I just didn’t know who. I felt a drop of cold rain run down the back of my neck as I dialed 911.

  I reported the shooting and fire, and I left them with my name. The incentive call was to ease their suspicion about me when the cavalry arrived. My thoughts raced, searching for evidence, maybe something dropped on the ground—something to connect Courtney to this place. I could see very little in the drifting smoke and pelting rain. I thought about the black Lincoln SUV near the drive. Whose was it, and where was that person or persons?

  The wail of sirens and horns filled the night air now pulsating with the flash of blue and white emergency lights, radios crackling with staccato bursts, handguns drawn. They were followed by firefighters. I tucked the Glock behind my back and under my shirt as they rolled hoses from the tankers, through the side yard, down to the inferno. I looked back to the office and could see police, detectives, and paramedics working the scene. A few minutes later, a young police officer approached me. He held a long flashlight and a short pistol, a .38. “Who are you, sir?” he asked. “And what is your business standing here in these orange trees?”

  “My name’s Sean O’Brien. I arrived twenty minutes ago looking for a friend of mine I had reason to believe might be staying here. When I arrived, the fire was burning down there, front door open, and a man’s body on the floor. I called nine-one-one.”

  “I need to see some ID … slowly use one hand.”

  I complied and used one hand to lift my wallet from my pocket. Two more officers approached, each positioning themselves strategically on opposite sides of me.

  “Okay, Mr. O’Brien,” the first officer said. “This person you knew, why would you be trying to find her at five a.m.?”

  “Because she needed help. She’s asthmatic.”

  “Did you find her?” He glanced at the burning trailer for a moment.

  “No, and when I got here that trailer was fully involved.”

  A tall man dressed in a tweed sports coat and blue jeans approached. He wore no tie, badge clipped to his belt, eyes red and puffy, morning stubble on his thin face. “I’m Detective Lawrence.” He glanced over my shoulder to the fire. “What’d you see?”

  “As I told your officers, not a lot. A dead man in the office. A snake crawling across the floor, and that trailer engulfed in flames.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “Yes.”

  All three the officers pulled guns out of their holsters and pointed them at my chest.

  Detective Lawrence said, “Interlock your fingers and put your hands behind your head.” I did so and he motioned to one of the officers. “Search and disarm him.”

  The officer nodded, pulled on white cotton gloves and carefully removed the Glock from under my shirt and then patted me down. The detective said, “Why didn’t you bother to let anyone know you were carrying?”

  “No one asked. I have a permit to carry that gun.”

  “Not at an apparent homicide scene you don’t.”

  “I’m the one who called in the shooting and the fire. And I waited for you to arrive. If I shot that vic, why would I do that?”


  “Vic? Were you in law enforcement?”

  “A long time ago. Homicide. Miami-Dade PD. Look, that entrance wound on the vic’s forehead was caused by a much smaller caliber gun than the Glock, especially at close range. You can check my gun. It hasn’t been fired, at least not today. Fully loaded.”

  He said nothing for a few seconds, his green eyes reflecting the orange flames. “Doesn’t take but a few seconds to reload. Are you now a private investigator?”

  “Nope. I’m a fisherman. I was here because a friend of the deceased thought a young woman I’m searching for might be here.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Courtney Burke.”

  His jaw muscles tightened. “Courtney Burke. Is she the same person suspected in the multiple deaths near Daytona?”

  “She’s a person of interest.”

  Then he made a disdainful grin out of one side of his mouth. “Now it’s coming into focus. You’re the Sean O’Brien who’s all over the news. The old boyfriend of Senator Logan’s wife … and Courtney Burke just might be your daughter.”

  “In your business, you should know you can’t believe everything you see on cable TV.”

  “Tell you what I do believe, I believe she’s wanted for serial murders.”

  “She’s presumed innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, not a court of public opinion.”

  He shook his head. “We’ll be taking you to the sheriff’s office to talk more about all of this. Swab him for gunshot residue, too, Wally.”

  “You might want to talk with the drivers or owners of that black SUV out front. Since it’s still here, odds are the occupants could be in what’s left of that trailer. Or maybe my alleged daughter’s in there.”

  He motioned with his head and two officers escorted me across the lawn, around the side of the office, and over two fire hoses, water leaking from their connections. We rounded the building and stepped into a blaze of TV news lights and reporters behind yellow crime scene tape. I heard one reporter shout, “It’s the guy who’s mixed up in the affair with Andrea Logan.”