Lowe, Tom - Sean O'Brien 08

by A Murder of Crows

  O’Brien wiped his eyes. He took a deep breath, leaned over and kissed Wynona on her forehead. “When Alice came out of the rabbit hole, she said it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. You, too, Wynona can tell yesterday goodbye because you’re a different person, a woman who’s no longer chained to her past.”

  O’Brien squeezed Wynona’s hand, a single tear spilling down her cheek.

  Within seconds, the parking lot was filling with ambulances, more than a dozen police squad cars and tactile teams, men in full body armor entering the building. O’Brien stood as the EMTs worked on Joe and Wynona, talking in hushed tones, faces serious, fighting to restore all the vital signs.

  Kimi walked over and stood next to O’Brien. He held her in his arms. She dried her eyes, hands trembling—the effects of heroin in her system. She watched them load her Uncle Joe and Wynona into the ambulances. O’Brien put a hand over Kimi’s shoulder, and walked her to the shade of a mimosa tree. “It might be a good idea if you go to a hospital and get checked out. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “I’ll go to the hospital to be with Uncle Joe and Wynona. But I don’t want to be a patient there. I will be okay … I know that now. I will be okay.”

  O’Brien looked into her dark eyes and saw a light he hadn’t seen before. It would take a while, but he believed she would be okay. “Kimi, something else is okay, too.”

  “What?”

  “Defending yourself against Dakota Stone. You shot him in the chest … didn’t you?”

  She nodded, nostrils flaring. “He was coming for me again. I couldn’t take it anymore. I took my father’s gun, and when Coach Stone tried to corner me, I got the gun from my purse and shot him. I was so scared … I called my father, and he had some men pick up Coach Stone and take him someplace. He was still alive when they came … but I can’t stop having nightmares.”

  O’Brien reached for her. Kimi hugged him, her arms wrapping around his wide shoulder. He felt hot tears coming through his shirt.

  Two unmarked cars arrived with more squad cars and plainclothes investigators. One man, tall, late forties, gray hair, dressed in a blue sports coat and jeans, walked over to O’Brien.

  Ron Hamilton said, “Looks like there is only one survivor in there. I’m told there are eight dead, including Scarpa in the lot. I’m glad you called us, Sean. But I’m not sure you needed us.”

  O’Brien nodded, too exhausted to smile. “The survivor’s name is Tony Rizzo. He’s inside, and he will testify. A detective with the Seminole PD, Wynona Osceola, was just taken to the ER. She’s the one who called you. Joe Billie, my friend and this girl’s uncle, was taken in a separate ambulance. Both are suffering from gunshot wounds. This is Kimi Tiger. She was kidnapped by Scarpa’s gang. But they failed infiltrating the tribe’s business, and they failed with Kimi.” O’Brien looked at her. “Which makes you the winner.”

  She smiled and nodded her head. “I can be that.”

  ONE HUNDRED TWELVE

  O’Brien and Max waited at the end of their dock on the St. Johns River. The morning humid, the surface of the river flat, dark as coal, the slow current subtle, like the whisper of a breeze. A cardinal warbled in a large weeping willow, its leafy branches tickling the back of the river. “Here he comes, Max.” O’Brien pointed to a man in a canoe, paddling against the current. “That’s Joe. And, as always, right on time.”

  They watched Joe Billie paddling his canoe up river, staying near the center. Ripples trailed his canoe. Max barked once, trotting up and down the dock as Billie approached. Within a minute, he pulled up next to the dock. O’Brien tossed a rope. “You made good time, and you’ve only been out of the hospital for two weeks. You sure you should be paddling?”

  “It’s great physical therapy. After all the hospital treatments, the surgeons prescribed a battery of rehab. They wanted me to come in three times a week and work with a therapist. I decided to go back into the woods. Chop wood, harvest palmetto, swim, and paddle my canoe. I feel a hundred percent better.” Billie picked up something in a brown paper bag and stepped to the dock.

  O’Brien nodded. “That first couple of days in the hospital, you weren’t doing so good. The doctors told me you had very little blood left.” He paused, the high-pitched sound of an osprey coming from across the river. “Joe … that dark liquid that the old medicine man, Sam Otter, gave us … is that what kept you and Wynona alive until medics got there?”

  Billie watched the osprey dive in the river. He looked at O’Brien. “That’s one of the things. The other is knowing that you and Kimi were right there, connecting with us and asking the universe, the Creator, for help.”

  O’Brien said nothing.

  Billie handed O’Brien the paper bag. “It’s your gun, Sean. The one you let me borrow. I’m returning it. Cops kept it long enough as evidence. When do you think the trials will happen?”

  “Lloyd and Bobby Hawkins will be tried separately in the death of Lawrence Barton. Lana Halley thinks the state will cut a deal, life for both with no possibility of parole. Carlos Bertoni, the mob button man who actually kidnapped Barton, is dead. In the other cases, two of Dino Scarpa’s hit men are being tried in the deaths of Frank Sparrow and Dakota Stone. Although Stone had a round to his chest … it was two in the head that killed him.”

  Billie said nothing

  “Although your brother-in-law didn’t pull the trigger, by luring Frank Sparrow to an ambush, he’s an accomplice to murder. But because he’s willing to testify against members of the mob family, he will do less time. Charlie Tiger will see some prison time.”

  “I know. And I feel bad for him, my sister, and Kimi. I believe this would never have happened, at least the perfect storm as you called it, if Kimi had not been molested. Otherwise, Charlie might not have done business with those men. It’s tragic.”

  “How’s Kimi?”

  “Better. Her mother tells me that Kimi has an excellent therapist, and she has a nice boyfriend. She’s a strong-willed young woman. There will always be scars, but it is my hope they fade over time. Wynona Osceola has been spending time with her, too.”

  “That’s what I hear. As a matter of fact, I’m going to be spending some time with Wynona. She’s meeting me at the marina soon.”

  Billie smiled. “She’s a beautiful woman with a heart to match. I think you two might be good for each other.”

  “You think so?”

  “Sure, you’re a lot alike. Maybe, after all we’ve been through these last few weeks, the consolation prize is you two getting together. However, it’s one bizarre way to find a date. Maybe online dating is safer.” Billie laughed.

  O’Brien smiled. “I’d be afraid to go there.”

  “Old friend, I do not believe there is anything you’re afraid of …” He paused and looked O’Brien directly in the eye. “Thank you, Sean. Thank you for having my back. You went through a lot, and I will always be grateful.”

  “You’re welcome. You’d have done the same for me.”

  Billie reached down and petted Max. “The next time I cut palmetto, you come with me, Max. I could use an extra pair of eyes and that nose of yours in the woods.” Billie got back in his canoe, quietly paddling, his fly rod like an antenna propped up behind him. In less than a minute, he’d made it to the wide oxbow, the bend in the river lush with ancient cypress trees, limbs draped in hanging moss, like gray beards of patient philosophers standing by the river’s edge.

  Max looked up from the dock, something catching her eye. A large crow flew from the national forest, alighting on a leafless limb near the top of a bald cypress tree. The crow tilted its head, looking down at O’Brien and Max. The bird called out twice, jumped from the limb and soared downriver, toward the tiny canoe in the distance. Soon they seemed to merge, becoming one black speck where the river met the sky.

  EPILOGUE

  ONE MONTH LATER

  O’Brien started the engines on Jupiter, turning them over, looking at an oil
pressure gauge. Then he ran the generator for a moment, glancing up to see Wynona Osceola walking down L dock toward Jupiter. She wore a short, white sundress and a white, floppy sun hat with a red stripe wrapped around the lower part of the crown. She carried a small suitcase and a straw handbag.

  O’Brien killed the generator switch and climbed down from the fly bridge to greet her. Max barked once, cocking her head as Wynona approached.

  “Permission to come aboard,” she smiled.

  “Granted.” O’Brien met her at the steps, taking her bags and holding her hand as she stepped down into the cockpit. “Welcome aboard. Glad you could get away.”

  “I haven’t taken a real vacation in five years.” She smiled and knelt down, petting Max. “I’ve heard so much about you. And I hear you have an appetite.”

  Max snorted, a near smile on her doxie face, tail wagging.

  O’Brien reached for one of the ropes as Nick Cronus approached wearing flip-flops, faded trunks and a tank shirt. “Sean, lemme help you.” Nick began untying one of the lines, looking up at Wynona and grinning. “My name is Nicky the Greek. I’m Sean’s friend and sometimes teacher.”

  Wynona smiled. “Really … what do you teach him?”

  “How to run a boat. How to cook a fish the way a lady likes it, filet, moist … tender.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  “Ya’ll get stranded out there, give me a call. I come to your rescue. Like a knight.” He laughed, untying the last rope.

  O’Brien pulled an icy bottle of beer from a cooler and tossed it to Nick. “This is something for you to cool down with, Nick. Thanks for the send-off.” He grinned and turned to Wynona. “Let’s go on the bridge. You’ll have a great view of the marina on the way out.”

  Nick popped the top off his beer, took a long swallow, watching Jupiter pull from the slip. He raised his beer in a toast. “Have fun!” Nick walked away, humming a Greek folk song.

  They went through the tidal waters of Ponce Inlet, O’Brien steering Jupiter into the Atlantic, turning south and reaching a smooth plane on the blue ocean. Wynona sipped a glass of chardonnay, sitting in a canvas deck chair next to O’Brien at the wheel. Max curled up on the bench behind them. The sea breeze blew through Wynona’s thick, dark hair, her face relaxed. She felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

  O’Brien reached into the console under the wheel and lifted out a giftwrapped box. He handed it to Wynona. “This is yours.”

  “For me? It’s not even my birthday.”

  “It doesn’t need to be for this.”

  She set her glass of wine down and unwrapped the gift. Wynona looked in the box and glanced up at O’Brien, a big smile forming. “I’ve never had a man give me a knife before.”

  O’Brien smiled. “It’s not just any knife. I think it has a heritage that reaches to you.’’

  “To me … how?”

  “When I spoke with Lawrence Barton’s wife, she said her husband was hunting for a knife hidden in a cave somewhere near the mound. He apparently had found the information in an old diary written by a soldier who was part of the army fighting the Seminoles in the last of the three wars. He was looking for the knife Osceola thrust into an Indian relocation treaty that he refused to sign. I only went a few feet into the cave. On my way out, I looked up at a small natural outcropping of rock, and I could barely see the tip of the knife.”

  Wynona held the knife in both of her hands. She took in the detail, the way the handle was carved, the sharp edge still on the blade. She lowered her voice, “If this is Osceola’s legendary knife … it’s priceless, a precious artifact, a relic of the Seminole heritage. I’d love for you to show this to the tribal council.”

  “You can show it to them because I’m giving it to you.”

  “You found it hidden in a cave. Probably where many people never saw it. You should keep it. You were meant to find it.”

  “And I was meant to give it away. Not to just anyone, but to a woman who is directly related to the man who most likely carried it … Osceola. It’s yours, Wynona. Accept it, a long overdue inheritance.”

  “The words ‘thank you’ don’t seem enough … but thank you, Sean.” Her eyes watered.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Within two hours, they had reached Canaveral National Seashore, a long ribbon of brown sugar sand that appeared as it had to Spanish sailors four hundred years earlier. O’Brien approached the seashore from the Intercoastal Waterway, anchoring in a lagoon and taking Wynona and Max in an inflatable rubber dinghy powered by a small outboard motor. They landed on a mangrove beach, got out, and followed a sand trail through mangroves to the national seashore, the surf breaking, gulls laughing.

  Wynona took a deep breath of salty air. “This is so beautiful. I’ve been in Florida most of my life, but somehow I never made it to this long stretch of beach. Nobody’s here. Maybe it’s because today is Monday, not a lot of beachgoers.”

  “Could be … or maybe they knew we were coming and wanted to give us some privacy.”

  “In that case, let’s take it.” He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her, the sea breeze in her hair. Then he held her hand, and they walked, Max leading much of the way, chasing gulls and trotting through the shallow tidal pools.

  They walked more than a mile, no one in sight. Wynona looked up at O’Brien, “This is Florida as my ancestors knew it. Primitive. Raw. Nature was so much a part of their lives, really defining them and their place on earth.” She paused and pressed O’Brien’s hand. “When I was shot and lying in that parking lot, so afraid I was going to die, you gave me strength. When you squeezed my hand and drew the parallel with Alice coming out of the rabbit hole, because she’d found herself, what you said helped me hang on. You and Alice were both right. For me, like her, it makes no sense going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. And I’m a better person now. Maybe a near death experience reinforced that … I’m just so grateful you were there to whisper it in my ear.”

  “Now it’s time for the other ear.” He leaned down and whispered.

  She smiled, her dark eyebrows arching “I don’t think Cheshire Cat ever said that, but I like the idea of swimming naked on a deserted beach. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  She slipped out of her sundress. O’Brien removed his T-shirt and shorts. He reached for her hand, and they sprinted into the surf, Max giving chase and barking.

  They swam beyond the breakers, laughing, playful, the sun low, feathery burgundy clouds drifting over the horizon. O’Brien held her in the calm water, using his fingers to gently push wet hair from her face, the sway of the water caressing them. They floated for a few minutes, the two of them, alone in the copper sparkle of the ocean. They kissed and began swimming back to shore where Max waited, chasing the roll of the surf, barking at low-flying gulls soaring above a bronze sea.

  The End

  We hope you’ve enjoyed A Murder of Crows

  Here is a preview from The Dragonfly, the ninth novel in the internationally bestselling Sean O’Brien series by Tom Lowe

  The Dragonfly

  Dave Collins didn’t like to dream. Unlike most people, Dave remembered his dreams. He remembered because, for the most part, he’d lived them. Some were good. Most were not. The bad ones seemed to hang around the more often, like a shadow that follows you because it’s attached to your psychic profile. It was part of the inner baggage he still carried from three decades of covert intelligence service.

  He thought about that as he readied for bed inside his 42-foot trawler, Gibraltar. He sat on his couch, reading, occasionally looking up to catch the sweep of light from Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. The doors leading from the salon to the cockpit were open, the night breeze delivering a hint of brackish water and embers of dying charcoal.

  There was a noise.

  It was foreign. Something unfamiliar from the night sounds of the marina, the slap of the sailboat halyards in the breeze, the groan of boat bumpers agains
t the dock in a rising tide. His eyes burned. Dave removed his wire-frame glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stood, stepping to the transom doors, Gibraltar barely rocking in the rising tide. In his early sixties with wide shoulders, and a trimmed beard—Dave was a large man but he kept in shape because it had been part of his regiment for survival.

  Dressed in shorts and a tropical print shirt, he stepped barefoot outside on the cockpit, removing a bungee cord that held the trawler’s doors wide open. He heard the sound of diesel engines in the distance, a shrimp boat returning from a week at sea, the boat entering the inlet and heading for Ponce Marina. Dave removed the bungee cord, turning to close the door.

  The barrel of a pistol pressed hard against the back of his neck.

  “Don’t move.” The man’s command was just above a whisper, calm and self assured. The accent just detectable.

  Dave lifted his hands—slowly. Nothing fast.

  “Step in the boat. Nice and easy. I am using a silencer. Will not make a noise louder than a cough.”

  Dave followed the man’s orders, walking back inside Gibraltar, stopping in the center of the salon. “What do you want?”

  “Turn around.”

  Dave kept his hands up, turning to face a man whose voice he now recognized. At that moment, Dave Collins knew that one of his dreams—his nightmares—was standing in front of him again. After fourteen years, the man Dave had helped send to prison was somehow out. Free. Deadly as a tiger that had escaped from a cage—because standing eight feet in front of him was a natural born killer. His name was Zaid Terzi.