Black River (11 page)

O’Brien said nothing. He stared across the river.

“Sean, I don’t know if what I told you is the secret of the river you heard mentioned, but I’m sure it’s something, once done, was so wicked it was kept quiet. Never discussed. Especially by the soldiers who did it. You think the woman in the photo was somehow connected to what went on here during the Civil War?”

“Yes. Maybe her husband, brother, or father was one of the soldiers out there on the river the night your ancestors saw it running red with blood.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“I’m trying to decide. I mentioned the antique dealer in DeLand, the guy who had bought the painting made from the photo…he said a husband and wife bought it. Couldn’t remember their names until he saw a picture of the dead husband on the news. Shot. Apparently accidental…and on that movie set. Killed by a stray Minié ball from rifles that were supposed to be unloaded. Now that I know that the mystery painting, which was made from the original photo of the woman in this file folder, was owned by the Civil War re-enactor shot on a movie set…things are becoming more complex. Working crime, I never found irony or coincidence in motive.”

Billie nodded and stepped closer to the large cypress tree. He studied the mud between the ferns at the base of the tree. “You used the word crime. But a moment ago you said the shooting was apparently accidental.”

“That’s quoting initial police reports released on the news.”

Billie squatted and touched the mud and sand with the tips of his fingers. “There’s some boot prints here. Unique prints. Look at the ridges—like some old-style combat boots.”

O’Brien stepped closer and studied the prints. “Custom made. Probably by hand.”

Billie nodded and pointed. “Looks like whoever stood here probably took a stick of gum from his pocket. Here’s the silver wrapper wadded. There’s some change…two pennies and a dime. Maybe this fell out of his pocket as he was getting his lighter. He crushed the stogie with the heel of his boot.” Billie used a small forked twig to lift something from the mud and sand. “And would you look here?” He stood, holding the object from the tip of the twig. “Sean, you mentioned that stuff about coincidence. What are the odds that we’d fine this?”

O’Brien studied the object. “Very slim. Maybe that came from the war going on here 160 years ago. But most likely it came from the guy’s pocket when he dropped it. That’s a Minié ball. Could be fifty caliber. Makes a nasty exit wound. I’m betting the guy killed on the movie set, was killed by a Minié ball.”

“Makes you wonder who was standing near this tree and why.” Billie set the Minié ball back where he found it.

O’Brien looked at the picture in his hand and lifted his eyes to the river. “Maybe the secret is beginning to reveal some of itself. That Civil War re-enactor was killed at least twenty miles from here on a movie set in the Ocala National Forest. So why did this photo lead us to a spot? It’s miles from where the re-enactor died, but yet that Minié ball in the mud seems to make the place where he was killed appear a lot closer. Like you said, Joe, who was standing here…and what was he doing?”

S
he tried to sound fearless. O’Brien could hear the alarm in Kim’s voice. On his way back to Ponce Marina, he called Kim, and she told him about finding the rose. After she read the note he said, “Those shoeprints in your front yard…did you happen to use your phone to snap a picture before the dew evaporated?”

“No. Sean, I’m not a police investigator. My mind doesn’t work that way. I just want this guy to go away. The stuff he wrote on the card is bizarre.”

“One line is from Shakespeare…
‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’
I’m thinking about the implication of what he wrote…the rose changing its color and the Confederate blood analogy. What rose changes colors?”

“I don’t care! Maybe I can get a restraining order.”

“Where are the rose and the note?”

“On my kitchen table.”

“Put the rose in a vase with water.”

“Sean, are you crazy?”

“It’s evidence. Keep it alive. Snap a picture of it. Bring the rose and the note to the marina—to Dave’s boat,
Gibraltar
. I’ll call to let him know we’re coming.”

No one in the cemetery noticed the man. He kept his distance. Just another mourner visiting a grave in a remote section of the cemetery. But there were
no graves in the nearby woods. He wore dark glasses and a Scottish tweed hat, his features vague in the distance from the gravesite where Jack Jordan was about to be laid to rest.

Laura Jordan sat in one of the metal folding chairs, her daughter next to her, dozens of friends and family sitting or standing near the open grave. The humid air smelled of flowers and fresh dirt. A green canvas awning, held in place by white metal poles, cast a section of the mourners in shade. Most wore sunglasses. Some wiped away tears trickling from behind the dark lens. A few used hand-fans to circulate the steamy air around their faces.

They listened to a tall, thin minister with a ruddy face and hair to match speak eloquently of Jack Jordan, the difference Jack had made in his community, his love of family, country, history, and God. “For those fortunate enough to have spent time with Jack, you couldn’t but help but feel good in Jack’s presence,” said Reverend Simmons, glancing from the crowd of about one-hundred, looking up to the blue sky for a beat, then lowering his eyes to the flock. He nodded and smiled, almost like he remembered a joke he wanted to tell. “His positive spirit was infectious, giving anybody who knew him a brighter day. Jack would rather be off on his next adventure, searching for lost history. Always curious. Always probing for lost puzzle pieces. As much as he loved history, it was the present and future with his family that he treasured the most. Laura and little Paula were his light in the night.”

Laura blinked back tears and held her daughter’s tiny hand. She glanced across the cemetery, her fragmented thoughts swirling in variegated images of the last days she’d spent with her husband. A movement in the neighboring pine trees caught her eye. A man stood in the thicket and watched the funeral. Laura wondered if he was one of their friends. Maybe someone who’d rather grieve alone, a friend who preferred to keep in the background. But all of their mutual friends were here. She wasn’t sure, but it appeared he lifted a pair of binoculars to his face. The Reverend Simmons eulogy was now a faint soundtrack in her mind, lost in the warble of blue jay calls, soft sobbing, and the sound of a horse trailer passing by on the country road.

Laura swallowed dryly, glanced down at her daughter. Five seconds later, when she looked back toward the woods, the man was gone.

After forty-five minutes, most of the mourners had left the cemetery. Less than a dozen cars remained in the parking lot lined with large moss-draped oak and palm trees. Cardinals and wrens competed in song with choral chirrups and warbles. Laura and little Paula walked Jack Jordan’s mother and father to their parked Lincoln. There were long hugs and warm tears as they said their goodbyes, Laura’s mother-in-law promising that she would stop over tomorrow to visit and bring some more pictures of Jack when he was a boy. Laura nodded, thanked them, and then took Paula by the hand, walking across the hot cemetery parking lot to their car.

A shiny new Ford pickup truck was in the space beside Laura’s car. A man wearing dark clothes, approached the truck, coming from the direction of Jack’s grave. Cory Nelson smiled at Laura and Paula. Nelson, tall, broad shoulders, military haircut, removed his sunglasses and said, “I was just giving Jack my final farewell. How you holding up now, Laura?”

Laura glanced down at Paula. “It’s going to be hard without him.”

Nelson nodded. “I’m always here for you and Paula. I never thought I’d see a day like this. Jack was just…he was just larger than this life in everything he did.” Nelson leaned down and hugged Paula. “You take care of your mama, okay”

“Okay, Uncle Cory.”

He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers and stood just as a car engine started. It was at the far side of the lot. The last car, a gray BMW sedan, windows tinted. Laura watched Nelson’s eyes following the car. There was the no hint of recognition. Laura turned to look at who was leaving. She could barely make out a Scottish tweed hat pulled low. The driver wore dark glasses and didn’t slow or wave. Windows up. Identity sealed. She thought about the man she’d spotted at the edge of the woods during Jack’s service. She looked up at Nelson. “Who was that?”

He placed his sunglasses back on. “I couldn’t make out his face. Maybe someone Jack knew.” Laura could see the reflection of the car in the curved lens of the dark glasses, the automobile extending like a stretch limousine,
somehow strange and incompatible with the lyrical sounds of birdsong in the oak trees. Over Nelson’s wide shoulders, high above a distant field of wildflowers, Laura saw black carrion birds riding the air currents, circling the smell of death below the deep blue sky.

M
ax scampered down L dock a few feet in front of O’Brien. He carried the file folder in one hand. He paused to watch a forty-three-foot Viking inch into its slip, diesels gurgling in the marina water, two laughing gulls flying above the boat. A man in wrap-around mirrored sunglasses stood at the wheel adjusting the bow thrusters. Another man in swim shorts and a Miami Dolphins tank top stepped to the rear of the transom, tossing a line to a waiting boat owner standing on the dock. Max barked once, welcoming the fishermen’s return, and then trotting toward the end of the pier, head held high.

Kim was already there, sitting at a round table on the cockpit with Dave and Nick. O’Brien could see the rose in the center of the table, paper plates, cheese and a bottle of wine. Dave looked up and said, “Sean and Miss Max, welcome aboard. Kim brought the floral arrangement. Nick delivered a half-bushel of stone crab claws on ice. And I’m breaking out a couple of bottles of chardonnay I’ve been chilling.”

Nick grinned. “I brought a gallon of Kalama olives, a pound of feta cheese, and some pita bread. C’mon, hot dog, join Uncle Nicky in the galley.”