by Lowe, Tom
“Thanks, Nick. Gotta go.”
I turned to Dave. “Can you keep an eye on Max? There’s some food for her in Jupiter’s galley. You have a key.”
“Go find Kim; take care of her. I can take care of Maxine.”
***
Big John, at the Tiki Bar, gave me Kim’s number and the address to her home. I stood on the dock adjacent to the bar and made the call. On the second ring I heard, “Hi, this is Kim. Please leave a message.”
“Kim, it’s Sean; call me.” I left the number and ran hard to my Jeep. She lived less than a mile away. But I felt like it would be a long journey because I couldn’t get there fast enough. I drove more than sixty through a twenty-five zone down a winding, narrow road that hugged the west side of Ponce Inlet, near the Halifax River. It was bordered on the left with cabbage palms and windswept scrub oak resembling giant bonsai trees. I swerved around bicyclists in the center of the road, golf carts crossing the road, tourists on mopeds, and cars crawling well below the speed limit.
I turned off Peninsula Drive onto Sailfish Street, a street filled with ranch-styled homes. The fourth house on the left was the address. It was a small brick home. Yard neat. Royal palms on either side of the house. Kim’s car was in the drive. I spotted a white Chevy van across the street, under the shade of a large oak. Not a good sign.
I parked near the van. Made a mental note of the plate number. I got out of the Jeep, stood in the shade a moment, the ticking of the engine cooling was the only sound. I walked toward a large banyan tree, keeping the tree between me and the house, a strangler fig gripped the tree trunk with octopus tentacles. I lifted my Glock from under my belt.
On the way to the front of the house, I placed my hand on the hood of Kim’s car. Very warm. I dialed her number and walked silently to the front door. I stood at the door and heard the phone ring. On the fourth ring, it went to her voice mail. Phone’s here. Car’s here. Where’s Kim? Napping, maybe? Not likely. I looked at the lock on the door. There were some slight abrasions. Not worn by keys, but fresh. Picked. I gently opened the door. I held the Glock with both hands, and walked inside. I felt a drop of sweat roll down the center of my back. The cool air encircled me. I stood in the foyer and listened. There was the hush of air through the vents in the living room ceiling. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner to the right of a blue sofa. The floors were wood, polished. A large oriental rug in the center.
A noise.
A creak coming from the wooden floors. Somewhere in a back room. I slipped my boat shoes off and walked barefooted down a hallway, Glock extended. Adrenaline pumping. Another creak. Was Kim walking? I wanted to shout her name. To verify that she was okay. The grandfather clock started chiming. Bong … bong … bong …
The sound of someone walking carefully was closer. And there was the distinct sound of a gas stove ignited, burning.
I stopped in a closed doorway—maybe a bedroom. Listened. The whoosh of a gas burner was louder. I turned my head to the left, guarded, and peering into the kitchen. The front right burner was on high, blue flames whispering. There was a bright white flash. Next to my head, a framed glass photograph on the wall exploded. The bullet missed my ear by less than an inch. I hit the floor, rolling, and came up behind a kitchen counter, Glock firing.
Two men returned fire, bullets ripping through the kitchen, room filling with white smoke, the smell of cordite heavy. I fired again. One man screamed. I heard them running, tripping over furniture. Smashing things. They bolted out the front door. I followed, smoke in my eyes. There was blood on the floor. One of my bullets connected. I’d try for two. I stood at the open door and aimed my pistol. They ran through the yard to a waiting dark blue van. I started to squeeze the trigger. A neighborhood kid on a bicycle was less than fifty feet behind the running men, and the kid was in the line of fire.
The men jumped into the passenger side of the van and the driver sped off, the tires throwing loose gravel. I lowered my Glock and turned to go back inside. Horrified at what I might find.
61
I found Kim lying on her stomach in an alcove off from the kitchen, blood oozing near her right ear and pooling on the white tile. Her hair was matted with blood. I dropped down beside her and gently touched her. She shuddered. “Kim, it’s me, Sean.” I checked her wounds, making sure there were no obvious neck or spinal cord injuries. Her mouth had been sealed with duct tape. She looked at me, her eyes blinking tears, pleading, nostrils flared, inhaling in fast heaves—so very frightened.
I grabbed a clean towel folded on the counter and pressed it against the open gash on her head. “You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, gingerly pulling the tape off her mouth.
She gasped, “Sean!”
“It’s all right now. Take a deep breath and slowly release it.” I used my phone to dial 911, gave the dispatcher the address and told her to send paramedics. Then I turned back to Kim. “Help’s coming. We have to get you to the ER.”
Kim looked at the roaring blue flames coming from the burner, eyes tearing. “They came out of nowhere as I was making a cup of tea. One man pushed me against the wall and screamed for me to tell him the name of the woman who lent Courtney Burke her phone. When I told him I didn’t know, he started beating me. He kicked me in my side, and he wore those military boots. He knocked my breath out. He said he was going to hold my hand over the burner until my memory returned. Sean, if you hadn’t arrived, I’d be dead. They weren’t going to let me live. I know what one man looks like. The other kept watch at the front door.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s about your height, but stocky. His hair is blond … cut short. His ears stuck out just a little. He had cleft chin and hateful green eyes. He smelled of that body spray I’ve smelled before. One of the deck hands uses it. I can smell it when he sits at the bar. He told me it was Axe body spray. Sean my hands are tingling. I feel like I might pass out.”
“Stay where you are—don’t move until we can stabilize you.” I turned off the gas to the burner and knelt down beside Kim. I took the towel from her head and examined the gash. I could see the white bone of her skull. “You’re going to need some stitches.” I dampened a fresh towel and cleaned her wound, stopping the flow of blood. I used the thumb of my left hand to push a bloodied strand of hair from her face. She looked at me, eyes welling, biting her lower lip. “I hear the siren. Paramedics will be here in a minute.”
“Thank God you were here, Sean.”
I said nothing.
She inhaled deeply. “What do I do if he comes back?”
“One of my bullets hit him. They might not come back.”
“There might be others.”
“I know, but I’m going to send them a message. It’ll be one that they can’t ignore, and it should toss a safety net over you. It’s Courtney they want.”
She looked at the stove for a moment. “Dear God … does that poor girl have a prayer?” Her eyes opened wider. “Where’s Thor? My dog … is he … okay?”
There was a whine and scratching at a door. I stood and walked to a closed bedroom door, opened it, and a German Shepherd darted around me, heading into the kitchen.
A barrage of sirens came around the block. I stood and looked through the front window to see six squad cars pull in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the property.
A neighbor must have heard the gunshots.
The ambulance and paramedics were kept at bay until officers and a SWAT team were in position. There was only one thing I could do. I left my Glock on the table, walked to the front door, raised my hands and stepped out onto the porch. I could count no less than twenty gun barrels pointed at my chest. I yelled, “It’s clear. I’m the one who called nine-one-one. We have an injured woman inside. The perps have fled.”
“Keep your hands up! On your stomach! Face down!”
I complied. A half dozen police officers ran over to me, guns drawn. I was patted down, cuffed.
“He’s clean,” said one
taller officer.
I said, “The victim’s female. She’s lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding from a head wound. She may have a fracture to her neck or back.”
The SWAT guys ran past me, ballistics armor rattling, and assault rifles readied. I heard the sound of shoes on the sidewalk very close to me. I lifted my head and turned. The brown wingtips were less than three feet from my face. He was a silhouette in the sun over his shoulders, but his voice was no stranger. Detective Dan Grant said, “Sean O’Brien, lying on his belly, hogtied … my, my, what’s this world coming to?”
62
He squatted down, a toothpick wedged in the corner of his mouth. Dan Grant removed his sunglasses and said, “Okay. You wanna tell me what the hell happened? Neighbors said it sounded like a shootout at the OK Corral.”
“Dan, the paramedics need to get in there. We’re the victims, and she’s injured.”
“Soon as my men give the all clear, the EMT guys can have at it.”
“See those drops of blood near the tip of your shoes?”
“I do.”
“There’s your DNA sample. More in the foyer. I hit one of the perps as they were trying to splatter my brains all over one wall. The woman inside, is Kim Davis. Employed at the marina. Runs the Tiki Bar Restaurant. Extractors—men used to get information from people, were sent here.”
“Why would someone do that? What does this woman have or know that’s worth this … this mess?”
One of the SWAT members stepped from the door. “Sir, it’s clear. Vic needs medical attention.”
Detective Grant said looked at the ambulance crew. “It’s all yours, gentlemen.” The paramedics hustled across the walkway, moving a gurney and medical cases inside the house. Grant signaled to an officer. “Help Mr. O’Brien up, please. And take the bracelets off.”
The officer nodded. He removed the cuffs and I stood. Dan glanced at me and motioned with his head for me to follow him. He stepped in the shade of the banyan tree. “Okay, Sean, start at the top. What went down?”
I told him most of what I knew, but not everything I suspected. He tossed the toothpick into the hedges and said, “Do you think this goes all the way up to Senator Logan?”
“Yes. Maybe not every strategic move, but his handlers aren’t doing this without his knowledge, and they probably have his blessing.”
“And none of this would be happening if you and his current wife hadn’t hooked up twenty years ago. I wouldn’t be looking for a suspected serial killer, and Senator Logan could run a clean campaign, assuming that’s even possible. Funny how life works out.”
“Courtney is a victim, Dan—like Kim is … they just haven’t found Courtney yet.”
“Sorry, I’m a little fuckin’ dumbfounded over all this happening in my county. I’ll speak with Miss Davis. Get her description of the perps. We’ll get a DNA sample from the blood and check CODIS for a possible match. We’ll notify all area hospitals to be on the lookout for a gunshot victim.”
“His DNA won’t show up in any national database. You won’t find their prints in there, and you won’t find him being treated at a local hospital. You’re not going to discover evidence or an ID—just like Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office couldn’t find with the two bodies they pulled out of the burning trailer in Gibtown.”
“So you’re saying these soldiers don’t officially exist in any government records system.”
“Not under their real names.”
Dan loosened his tie and crossed his arms. I glanced at the dozen or so neighbors milling around behind the crime scene tape and said, “She’s going to need police protection until I can direct the focus off her. Can you spare the manpower?”
“It’ll be easier to do if she’s hospitalized.”
“That may be a given.”
“I’ll speak with her inside the house or at the hospital.” He turned to go in Kim’s home, then looked back at me. “Oh, Sean. You might want to return phone calls. The reason I’d called was to tell you that the guy you wanted me to interview, Smitty. We finally located him.”
“Where?”
“County morgue. Two teenagers found his body in the woods where they were riding dirt bikes. He’d been shot twice in the head. Bandini may not have found Courtney, but I’d say he sure found this guy.” He turned and walked inside. The air was filled with the staccato of clipped language coming from police radios juxtaposed with the hum of honeybees darting in and out of the pink trumpet flowers.
The paramedics rolled Kim from her home, the wheels on the gurney vibrating along the sidewalk. I followed them to the back of the ambulance. Kim looked up at me and said, “Thank you for getting here when you did.” She reached for my hand. “How did you know—how did you know I needed help?”
“I put some pieces together. They’d planted a bug on Jupiter.”
A wide-shouldered paramedic said, “We have to go, sir.”
Kim moaned. “Be careful, Sean. I’m more afraid for you and Courtney than I am for myself.”
I nodded and released her hand. They lowered the gurney, lifted it, and slid Kim effortlessly into the ambulance. Two paramedics climbed in with her. Right before they closed the door, she looked at me and tried to give a heartfelt smile, the kind that always came so naturally to her. But it was a fearful smile. She lifted her trembling hand to wave goodbye, her fingers like the wings of a young bird that had fallen from the nest, struggling to catch the wind, but lacking the physical and inner strength to get off the ground.
I thought about that, watching the ambulance growing smaller in the distance, thought about the bottomless abuse of power by the bottom feeders gorging on the feedbag of greed while plowing scars into the souls of others, justified for the purported good of the masses, when it was really all about them.
I walked back to my Jeep, passing the banyan tree, a strangler fig encircled around the tree with vines thick as a broomstick. I paused for a second, the feeling was like walking by an old portrait in an art museum, the eyes in the painting giving the illusion of movement, following the viewer. There appeared to be an image formed against the tree trunk by the pattern of the vines. They’d grown and molded into a symmetrical but aged shape of a face—the face of a very old woman alive in the sap of the vines, her hair like snakes twisted and sprouting from the head of Medusa.
63
On the way back to the Marina, I stopped in the Tiki Bar and let Big John know what happened to Kim. He picked up the phone and ordered flowers to be sent to her in Halifax Hospital. As I walked down L-Dock, I thought about what I had to do and the options for doing it. I didn’t know if Courtney Burke was dead or alive. To keep her alive, I had to know her real identity. My key, I felt, was lying in the brief conversation I had with the mystery woman on the phone. Who was she? Where was she?
I had to find out. To protect Courtney and Kim, I had to try to reach Andrea Logan. I knew that either her phone, mine—or both of them, were monitored. I stood near the palm frond thatched roof of a fish-cleaning station and made the call. After five rings, I thought it was going to voice-mail, and then she said, “Hello, Sean. I can’t talk now.”
“Andrea, don’t hang up, please. Even if you can’t talk, you can listen for thirty seconds. The life of a close friend of mine was threatened. She’s an innocent victim in this, just as Courtney—a girl who might be our daughter—is an innocent victim.”
“Sean, I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“Before you do, tell him to back off. All this can be worked out, but if Courtney’s harmed … there’s no turning around. Tell him, Andrea.”
“I’m so sorry.” She disconnected. I stared down at the phone in the palm of my hand, resisting the urge to throw it into the bay. I started toward Jupiter.
“Sean, wait up.”
I turned around to see Dave walking down the dock with two large plastic bags of ice. He said, “I caught the news bulletin on Channel Nine. They’re saying a shooting just happened on Sailfish Street. Pleas
e tell me Kim’s not hurt.”
“She’s hurt, but she’ll live.” I told him what happened.
He looked across the marina, his eyes troubled. He watched a charter fishing boat, four customers in the cockpit, the crew already serving the men drinks. Dave said, “They’d better keep security posted right outside her door. The only way that this roller coaster will come to a screeching halt is to find Courtney.”
“That’s all I’ve been thinking about the last few days.
“Well, apparently, she’s not in Florida anymore?”
“What do you mean?”
“She was spotted in New Orleans. A street artist, a guy who used to be a police sketch artist, said he spoke with her near the French Quarter. He said she ran away, and then he sketched her face from memory, from the brief time he talked to her. Let me put this ice away, one bag’s for Nick, and I’ll show you the sketch on my tablet. I downloaded it from CNN.”
As we walked by St. Michael, Dave yelled, “Nick, get your ice before it melts.”
“Where’s Max?” I asked.
“After playing an intense game of tag with Ol’ Joe the cat, she hit my sofa for a power nap.”
Nick came out of his boat, hair tousled, eyes puffy. Dave handed him a bag of ice over the transom. He grinned and said, “A boat without ice is like a car without tires. You get nothing done. Any luck on finding the girl?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Nick, Kim’s been hurt.” I gave him a brief explanation. He listened without interruption, the condensation from the ice dripping on top of his brown bare feet.
He shook his head, glanced at a pelican soaring over the water, and said, “Sean, I’m in good shape now. Let me join you hunting for these guys. Kim’s like a sister to me. I’m coming with you.”
“You’re still not fully healed. Sit tight. I’m trying to come up with a plan that will remove Kim from any of this.”
“How fast can you pull that off?”
“Not fast enough.”