Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7)

by Tom Lowe

  He turned back to me, tossing the joint in my face. The hot ash hit me above my left eye. I didn’t give him time to pull his hand back. I grabbed his arm, keeping him in the line of sight. Blocking a potential shot from the driver. I slammed his elbow on the edge of the door, crashing my upper body weight into his wrist. The sound was as if an egg was dropped on a tile floor. The bone snapped completely through at the wrist. The man’s hand flopping like a fish out of water.

  He screamed, turning around. “Shoot the motherfucker!”

  The driver tried to aim the shotgun. I grabbed the man with the broken wrist, my left hand gripping his thick neck. I held the Glock next to his round head, pointing the pistol at the driver’s chest. “Drop the shotgun! Now!”

  He stared down his barrel at me, his brother’s head directly in the line of fire. I could see the guy in my grip turning pale. His head jerked back then forward, vomiting down his chest.

  I stared at the driver and said, “He’s going into shock. It’d be a good idea to get him to a hospital. Once shock sets in, he just got a little closer to his date in hell. Put the shotgun down!” The opening at the bore was wide—a 12-gauge. Double barrel.

  He set the gun back in the rack, sliding across the seat. He came out the door and helped his brother into the passenger side of the truck. Then he slammed the door and ran around to the driver’s side, climbing back inside the truck. He looked over his brother to me, the brother’s head propped up against the headrest, his face bone white. The driver shouted, “Asshole, you broke my brother’s arm! You’re a fuckin’ dead man!”

  “And you’re on video.” I lifted my phone. “Got everything you said and did right here. The 4G quality of video in these phones is amazing. So if you try to file charges, it won’t fly.”

  He lifted the middle finger on his right hand and started the truck. The sunlight shining through the front windshield cast the gun in the back window into a silhouette. Two triggers. He pulled away, peeling rubber, the truck fishtailing and gaining speed. When someone pulls a gun on me, especially a 12-gauge shotgun, time slows into slices of still life because violent death is imminent. The brain processes surroundings so fast they’re seen in images of still life. I imagine for a suicide jumper, it’s the freeze-frame views between the bridge and the river—the graffiti on a girder, a bird flying at the same altitude, sun reflecting off the water.

  I replayed the scene when the driver grabbed the shotgun, leveling the double barrel out the truck window. I saw his stubby finger on one trigger. The way he disengaged the safety. Bloodshot eyes staring down the two barrels. Dirty Band-Aid on the left index finger. The sight at the end of the twin barrels—the white bead, a glowing marble perched between two dark, empty eyes of steel. I could tell the shotgun was a vintage model, one I recognized. I believed it was made by the A.H. Fox Company. I reached in my console and lifted up the Ziploc bag with the piece of buckshot. I thought about digging the shot out of the old oak. Had I found the original shotgun? To answer that, I’d have to go get it.

  FORTY-ONE

  I needed to hide my Jeep. I didn’t believe the brothers Grimm would be heading back soon. But on the way to the hospital to set the man’s fractured wrist, they would calling kinfolks. Maybe a convoy would be in the vicinity like a swarm of hornets. Maybe no one would show up, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  I drove my Jeep down a short dirt trail, parking behind a thicket of trees. I locked the doors, shoving the Glock in the small of my back under my shirttail. I sprinted across the road, climbed the cattle gate, ignoring the sign: No Trespassing. I had to find an old school bus somewhere in a pecan grove, and I didn’t have a lot of time to look for it.

  The air had the musty smell of broken pecan shells and wood smoke from somewhere in the distant fields. I walked down a sandy trail, stopping to look at tire tracks. They were wide. Truck tires. I wondered if Jeremiah Franklin drove a truck. More than that, I wondered how he’d react to me, considering the circumstances. As a homicide detective, I’d interviewed a lot of witnesses. But I’d never spoken to a witness who’d seen a murder as a child and buried it inside for fifty years.

  Maybe, somehow he might talk to me, or he might confirm what I was suspecting. I had no illusions, but I had to find him. If nothing else, I had to warn him. The fact that the brothers had slowed down driving by the property indicated that someone had tipped them off. Was it the state attorney, Lana Halley, or the detective—or any number of people connected to them? Who had the most to lose? Who had the most to gain? And who was in bed with whom? To lift the sheets, I needed to raise the stakes.

  A gust of wind blew through the pecan trees. I could hear some pecans falling, bouncing off branches, the soft thud as they hit the sandy soil. Something moved. In the distance, moving between the trees, there were shadows. I slipped my Glock out and stood near the base of a tree, waiting. Three large sand hill cranes came into view. One crane lifted its feathered head, opened its bill and called out. Behind the echoes of its call, somewhere in the distance, I heard a hound barking. I shoved my pistol back under my belt and followed the trail.

  I walked for at least a quarter mile before I spotted a patch of yellow through the rows of trees. It was an incongruous color in a grove of brown bark and green leaves. I walked closer and an old school bus came into view. It was near the end of the grove, anchored close to what appear to be a creek. The area around the bus was landscaped. Azaleas blooming. Potted ferns growing adjacent to the front and back of the school bus. Red roses grew from dark earth in a small area bordered with decorative railroad crossties. Wind chimes hung from the bracket that supported the bus’s large exterior mirror.

  When I came to within thirty feet of the bus, I stopped. I kept my Glock hidden, hoping there’d be no reason to display it. I could see no indication of movement. The bus door was closed. No car. No truck. No sign Jeremiah Franklin was home. I heard a hawk call out from a pine tree near the property. I shouted, “Jeremiah…are you here?”

  Nothing. The red-tailed hawk flew from the tree and a warm breeze blew through the pecan grove, the wind chimes jingling. I lifted the handwritten note from my pocket. I raised my voice. “This was written by Jesse Taylor. He asked me to come here today. In the note he says to let you know that he told me you and your grandpa taught him to fish on the Chipola River.”

  Nothing. The wind was still. Chimes silent. A honeybee darted in the rose blossoms.

  “Why you here?”

  The question came from behind me. I didn’t know if Jeremiah Franklin was pointing a gun at my back. I lifted my hands and slowly turned to face him. He was a big man. Skin matching the dark color of creosote in the railroad crossties. He held a pitchfork in both large hands. His bib overalls were stained from dirt and field sweat. He wore work boots, the laces made from twine. Perspiration glistened from his chest.

  I nodded. “I’m here because of something Jesse said. I’m just a messenger.”

  He used one hand to thrust the pitchfork into the ground. “What do you mean messenger? What’s your name? I ain’t never seen you in town.”

  “My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m from the east side of the state, near Daytona. I’m here because a man who was held in the old reform school, about the time you and Jesse were there, hired me to investigate the murder of Andy Cope.” I stopped. Watched his reaction. When I’d mentioned Andy’s name, Jeremiah’s eyes opened a little more. His right hand gripped the pitchfork’s wooden handle. “Unfortunately, my client, Curtis Garwood, was suffering from terminal cancer. He took his own life. And his dying wish was that Andy’s killer or killers be brought to justice. I’m hoping what you can tell me will do just that.”

  He crossed his large arms across his chest. “Nobody’s done nothin’ all these years, and now on account of a dying man’s wish, people be comin’ out of the woodwork to see what happened to Andy.”

  “What people?”

  “You and Jesse. After fifty years, that’s a crowd, man. Lo
ok, I won’t ya’ll to leave me alone. Andy was just one. Lots of kids never walked outta there. My brother was one of ‘em. The difference is I’m alive. And I’d like to keep it that way. Ain’t a damn thing gonna change.”

  “Change begins with you. It begins with anyone who’s witnessed someone being hurt or killed. Otherwise they got away with it, and the next generation has a license to repeat it.”

  “I tol’ Jesse I’d call him if I had somethin’ to say. But now he sends you.”

  “He’s in jail or he would have come.”

  “Why’s he locked up?”

  “Because he shot his pistol in a bar to keep the dogs off him. Jesse will make bond. The charges will probably be greatly reduced. Jesse wasn’t read his rights.”

  “Who’d testify to that? Sounds like somethin’ the police can cover up.”

  “I’ll testify. I was there.”

  He angled his head, as if he was seeing me for the first time, the sun breaking through a pecan tree behind him. He grinned. “You definitely ain’t from ‘round these parts. I tol’ Jesse I’d let him know if I had sometin’ to say about Andy’s killin,’ and right now I don’t. My mama wants my brother Eli’s body to be laid to rest in a proper burial. But finding him on that school property ain’t likely. I got work to do. Unless you got somethin’ more to say…”

  “Jeremiah, I have to share something with you. You need to be on guard.”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “Jesse made a mistake—an honest mistake. Thinking the prosecutor’s office would convene a grand jury, he told them you might be in a position to reveal the killer’s identity. He went to detectives, too, trying to get you in a witness protection program—”

  He stared at me, stunned. “Jesse might as well have put a bomb under my house.”

  “Here’s how you can take the fuse out of it. If there are kids buried on the school property, the FBI will get involved. You need to tell your story to the FBI. I can make that happen. Once the killer is arrested, a lot of the heat’s gone. It’ll be all over the news media. When you’re that visible, it’s less likely someone will come for you because of the much greater police, prosecutorial, and media muscle surrounding you and the case.”

  He sighed, looked down at his scuffed boots and then raised his eyes to mine. “A trial could be a long time comin’. That’ll give ‘em more time to take me out. I’m going to my mama’s place tonight. She made pork roast and pecan pie. When Jesse’s out of jail, tell him to call me. Only Jesse. Nobody else. You think the FBI’s got someplace they can let me stay?”

  “Depends on what you tell them.”

  “I got a lot to say, and to be honest wit’ you, I’m tired of holding it. When I was up in Michigan pickin’ apples last year, I saw somethin’ bad. Real bad. A Mexican, a younger fella, we became friends. His name was Carlos Valdez. Had a wife and baby girl in Texas. He was a fast picker, but he’d never pick on Sunday. He was Catholic, and he’d always say El Domingo es de Dios…it means Sunday is God’s day. We stayed in a rundown old motel outside of Muskegon. One rainy night, Carlos had just come back from some Mexican joint with tacos. We were gonna eat ‘em in the room, watch some football on TV, and split a six-pack. I heard the shots in the parking lot. Later, the cops would say it was a case of mistaken identity. I looked out the blinds and saw Carlos lyin’ on his back. A guy in a hoodie jumped in a Toyota and took off. I opened the door and ran to Carlos.”

  Jeremiah paused and licked his dry lips. “He’d been shot in the chest and neck. The night manager had called 9-1-1. Carlos asked me to pray for him. I couldn’t remember how to pray, man. I tried to remember the Lord’s Prayer. Carlos whispered something. It was first Peter…one…twenty-five. All I could do was hold his head to stop some of the bleeding. But he died as the ambulance was pullin’ into the lot. I couldn’t sleep the rest of the night…couldn’t shower long enough. I sat there in the dark in that motel room. Drank all the beer. About four in the mornin’ I lifted the Bible off the nightstand and looked up what Carlos had referred to. It says all people are like grass. Their glory is like the flowers in the field. The grass dies and the flowers fall, but the word of God stands forever. I gotta remember that now more than ever.”

  I nodded. “When I came out here to speak with you, a couple of roughnecks were casing the entrance to the property. They abruptly left. But they’ll be back.”

  “Did you say somethin’ to ‘em?”

  “I did. But it’s a temporary fix. When you visit your mother’s house, you might want to stay there until law enforcement can get these guys off the street.”

  “With all respect, Mr. O’Brien, you might not be who you say you are. I know Jesse. At least I know we came from the same cut in life. If I tell him who did it, if anything happens to me, I don’t take it to my grave. Tell Jesse to call me. The sooner the better.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Jesse Taylor followed the guard through the jail’s labyrinth, walking down a long corridor, the chants and yells from prisoners reverberating through the bars. The guard, a stoop-shouldered man with a jowly pink face, pointed to a small room. “Lose the orange in there. Your clothes are in this paper bag. You can pick up the other stuff you came in with at the desk.”

  Jesse nodded, took the paper sack and entered a small, windowless room that smelled of bleach. He put on his jeans, shirt and boots and then followed the guard to the inmate release area—a lobby that had hard plastic chairs and a middle-aged female corrections officer behind a thick glass window. Jesse thought it looked like a place you’d buy movie tickets. He said, “Name’s Jesse Taylor. Bondsman’s come and gone. It’s my turn.”

  She looked through the glass, expressionless, and said, “I’ll get your stuff. You gotta sign for it.” She pushed a manila envelope under the slot in the glass.

  Jesse opened the envelope, removed his wallet, looking through it. Satisfied, he slipped his watch on his wrist and glanced at his phone screen. “Two calls. Looks like somebody missed me.” He signed a slip of paper attached to a clipboard. “It’s all here.” Then he turned around and walked out the entrance to the county jail, stopping in the parking lot, closing his eyes, tilting his head toward the sky, and bathing in the warm sunlight. He lit a cigarette, walking to the shade of mimosa tree.

  He played the first missed call. “Hey, Jesse, it’s Harold. I’m calling you from the same booth we sat in just a few days ago when you hit town. Old buddy, you’ve come in here like a tornado. I heard you made bond for that shootin’ at Shorty’s. Caroline Harper must really believe in you. A security guard pal of mine says Wayne Johnson brought his brother in to be treated at the county hospital. My friend said Johnson was in a bad damn fight. He had his arm broken in two pieces. Did you hire somebody to do that? Jesse, they’re gonna find you burned to death in your car if you don’t let up. You’re messin’ with some mean sons-a-bitches. Call me, okay?”

  He played the second message. “Jesse, it’s Caroline. Call me as soon as you get this message. I’m hoping you’ve bonded out by now. I just spoke with Sean O’Brien. He wants you to call him. It’s something about the eyewitness to Andy’s killing. It’s 2:30 now. Meet me at the Alpine Inn for coffee. Thanks, bye.”

  Jesse slipped his phone into his pocket and walked toward the main entrance to the county jail. He recognized someone coming out the door. It was Ace Anders, the man Jesse had met at Shorty’s Billiards. Jesse grinned and said, “Hey, Ace…look, I didn’t get a chance to thank you for covering my back the other night. Anyway, thanks.”

  Ace nodded, looked at Jesse and glanced around the parking lot. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me. It’s not something you leave behind at Ranger school. You carry it for life.”

  “I was hopin’ they’d give you a break and cut you loose.”

  “Cooter Johnson, or his family, filed a trumped up charge of assault and battery. If I’d actually assaulted that freak, he’d be in a cast.” He looked over Jesse’s shoulder, eyes scouting the lot a
nd the people coming and going from the county jail building. “Look, Jesse, I’m not sure what’s happening. Yes, we got into a bar fight with Cooter and his posse, but it’s not like we robbed a bank.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re trying to say your threatening Cooter with the pistol and firing a live round was more than it appeared, as in assault with a deadly weapon. That can get you fifteen years in prison. That’s bullshit. The prosecutor, the woman with the great ass, she might drop charges against me if I’d testify against you. I told ‘em I don’t negotiate with extremists.” Ace smiled. “Something’s going on. I gotta believe it’s connected to that stuff you said to Cooter in the bar—the stuff about his grandfather being a pervert and shit that happened at the old reform school. Man, you touched a fuckin’ nerve. But why would the prosecutor want to dump on you? The Johnson family is pretty much all criminals, especially Cooter’s father, Solomon Johnson. And the DA’s office knows that. So what the hell’s goin’ on?”

  “It isn’t about them. It’s about the sale of all that land. If shit starts hitting the fan, if we find a bunch of bodies…kids buried there…it’s against the law to build on top of a cemetery.”

  “You think there are bodies, graves hidden up there.”

  “Yeah, yeah I do. And I’m gonna find them.”

  “You think all this makes a full circle back to Cooter Johnson’s grandfather?”

  “He was there when I was locked up as a kid. The boys called him Preacher. He quoted from the Bible, but he wasn’t preaching from the Bible. He was preaching from a damn dark place. It was complete evil—the look in his eyes when he’d sling the belt. It’s like he loved the smell of blood. Loved to hear kids cry. It made him beat you harder, ‘til there was no crying left, because at that point you were dying. He was preaching from the devil’s pulpit. I can’t imagine how many lives he destroyed. That kind of psychological abuse gets handed down, father to son, to whoever lights their short fuses.”