Black River (28 page)

“Perhaps, however, it doesn’t work that way. Even a replica diamond, one so close in size and quality of the Koh-i-Noor, couldn’t have been proven, considering the Confederate resources during the time of the Civil War. So the unflattering contract may still have been written on that pretense. It’s my job to find it. The stone, even though it’s a replica, would simply be an added bonus.”

Dave set Max down and asked, “What’s your intel pointing toward?”

“The perpetrator may be a British agent who breached, and we haven’t discovered it yet. Or he could be an American who somehow managed to secure the prime minister’s private line and hack his phone too. Regardless, he’s fearless, devious and very dangerous. All of this is creating storm clouds over the UK and India, potentially causing a major rift and fallout between the two nations. The additional salt in a newly opened wound is that Civil War document. If it’s certified real, it means England provided financial support to the Confederate States of America during what was always believed to have been a uniquely American Civil War with no backing or funding from other nations.”

Dave said, “And all of this is happening while Prime Minister Hannes conducts a fierce campaign for reelection.”

“Indeed. Hence the added haste to make it all go away. Sean, you mentioned one name, the name of Silas Jackson. Contingent on what Detective Grant shares with me, perhaps this gent, Jackson, would be a good fellow to have a dialogue with as well.”

O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. A sunburned fisherman, barefoot and in a baggy, wet swimsuit, scurried by carrying two large red snappers in either hand. He walked to a fish-cleaning station. O’Brien said, “You might want to speak with investigators before tracking down Jackson or any of the men in his group.”

“And why is that?”

“Because they’re more recidivists than re-enactors—meaning they still fight the Civil War and the War of Independence. They’re modern day militia with a grudge. If, by some very remote chance, the diamond is the real deal, and if Jackson has it, the money from a sale could help him finance a sizeable cache.”

“I doubt if he would have the means to orchestrate a blackmail essentially on the UK as a whole.”

Dave said, “But he could be working with someone who does.”

O’Brien nodded. “Find that person and you’ll most like find the blackmailer…and maybe the diamond. But I wouldn’t begin your hunt deep in the national forest.”

“In this job, Mr. O’Brien, I go wherever that hunt takes me. I follow the quarry. And I’ve done it all over the world.”

“Just make sure the quarry isn’t leading you into a world you can never leave.”

L
aura Jordan thought she heard the sound somewhere in her dreams. They were hostile dreams—nightmares. Images of her dead husband in the casket right before it was closed, his once handsome face vacant and gaunt, despite the black magic of the mortician. She could smell the flowers on both sides of the casket and hear the subdued sounds of weeping coming from behind her. Then there was the sound of someone scratching—a clawing noise—as if an animal was trapped inside her bedroom wall.
Maybe Jack’s alive. Let him out!

“Jack!” she blurted in her sleep. Laura opened her eyes. She glanced at the red digital numbers on the bedside clock.
2:42 a.m
. Her breathing was fast. Heart racing. She looked across the bedroom to the window. The full moon shown through the branches of a live oak tree in her back yard, shadows dancing from the moss-covered limbs moving behind the white drapes, like stick figure marionettes in the night breeze.

Laura heard her neighbor’s beagle bark three times. She sat up in bed, her sleep deprived mind feeling drugged from exhaustion. She stepped over to the drapes, slowly parted them less than two inches and looked out and across her back yard. The white moonlight turned her yard into a backdrop of grays and blacks, a moonscape devoid of colors lit by the sun. She saw a nighthawk dart over the tree line, and then a cloud rolled in front of the moon, casting the yard into black.

Laura crawled back into bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin.
God, how I miss Jack, miss so many things I took for granted about him—the way he squeezed my hand before we fell asleep—times I’d reach over and touch him as he slept. I must get some rest
.

She adjusted her pillow, turned away from the shadows pirouetting on the curtains, and closed her eyes. Laura felt lethargic from nights of sleep deprivation. The threats she had received, the feeling she was being followed, the questions Paula was asking—questions which had no rational answers that a child could understand. As her thoughts drifted like a boat without an anchor on a dark sea, the fog of sleep moved in on her perception. She thought she heard the neighbor’s beagle bark once more. A sharp, clipped bark. And then silence.

Somewhere in the darkness of a 4:00 a.m. morning, she felt the mattress move, slightly, as if Paula had crawled into bed. Laura reached for the opposite side of the bed, the side where Jack always slept. She touched the mattress, expecting to feel Paula’s small body. Nothing. Only the flat surface of her blanket and comforter. She slowly opened her eyes, her mind waterlogged in fatigue, unable to fully comprehend what she saw.
Must be a bad dream
.

No! Hell no!

A man stood in silhouette; the pale white curtains an eerie backdrop, shadows from oak limbs swaying behind him. He held a child in his arms. He whispered, “Do not scream if you want her to live. We mustn’t awaken your daughter, Laura.”

“Please…dear God. Please, don’t hurt her.” Laura sat up in bed, staring, her mind grasping for the right words. He cradled Paula, sleeping, in his arms. Her head rested her against his chest, her breathing slow and steady, a plush giraffe tucked under her chin. “Please, set Paula down.”

“All in good time,” the man’s voice was calm, a tone of irrelevance and absolute control. “You see, Laura, how easy it was for me to enter your home. Oh, the new alarm you had installed—it took me less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm it. How does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected? Rather unnerving, I would imagine.”

“What do you want?” Laura blinked back the horror in her eyes, the tears she wouldn’t allow to flow. “If you hurt my daughter—”

“What will you do, Laura? I have no intention of hurting Paula if you perform as I say. She will not have her throat slit like I had to do with the dog next door.”

“Dear God.” Laura held her hand to her mouth, nausea building in her stomach.

“Where is the Civil War contract? I know it’s here in your home. If you don’t want to bury your daughter like you did with your husband, show me the contract.”

“It’s not here! I swear. I don’t have it.”

“Where is it?”

“Gone. It’s being tested at the University of Florida.”

“Tested? Who is testing it?”

“A professor.”

“Don’t play games with me, Laura. I need a name, or I’m going to twist this little girl’s neck.”

“Kirby…Professor Ike Kirby. He’s in Gainesville.”

“Oh really? Gainesville, you say. Then why did I find a notepad in your kitchen that had Professor Kirby’s name and phone number on it and also a number for a hotel room at a place not far from here? I believe Kirby drives a ten-year-old Volvo…the same Volvo that was in your driveway a few hours earlier. And listening to your voice-mails on your mobile, I did hear the message from the good professor indicating he was staying at that hotel through tomorrow. So, just to clarify, Laura, you gave him the document, correct?”

Paula opened her eyes, the murkiness of sleep still in them. “Mommy…Mommy…”

“I’m here, baby, Mommy’s right here. Everything will be okay.”

“Answer me, Laura! I told you, it would take me just a split second to end this kid’s life.”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.”

The man set Paula on the bed and stepped back, his face and body still in deep silhouette. Laura reached for Paula, pulling her close, holding her head against her breasts, Laura’s hands covering Paula’s eyes.

“I’m leaving now, Laura. I hope what you told me is the truth—because, if you’re lying, I will return. And when I do, you can plan another funeral. The consolation is this: a smaller coffin is less expensive.” He stepped to the
door and said, “Your mobile no longer functions. I see you do not have a landline. Don’t even try to run to the neighbors to make a call. They have a mess to clean up anyway. Remember how easy it was to visit you and Paula tonight. Think about that if you decide to call the police. So unsafe. So unprotected. Now, who are you going to call? No one, Laura. No one on earth can protect you.” He left, deftly closing the bedroom door.

Laura clutched Paula, the tears running down her cheeks spilling onto her daughter’s small shoulders…shoulders that now seemed as fragile as the wings of a sparrow.

J
upiter
rocked slightly in her slip when O’Brien’s phone vibrated on his nightstand. Even in his sleep, he heard it on the first buzz. He looked at the digital screen, not recognizing the number. O’Brien answered and sat up, moonlight spilling through the porthole in the master berth. Laura Jordan was crying so loud, he couldn’t make out all of her words. Between cries she blurted, “Sean! He was in my bedroom!”

“Laura…slow down. Take a breath. What happened?”

“A man broke into my home! He lifted Paula out of her bed. He laid her on my bed. Dear God.” She choked for a second. “He wanted the Civil War contract.”

“Are you hurt? Is Paula hurt?”

“No. But he slit the throat of the neighbor’s poor little dog. And he said he’d do the same to Paula if what I told him wasn’t true. I’m calling you from my neighbor’s phone because he smashed mine.”

“Have you called police?”

“I dialed nine-one-one before I called you. They’re on their way. Sean, I’m so scared…”

“Did you recognize this man?”

“No. It was too dark.”

“Could you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I don’t know. He spoke in a whisper. Thank God Paula never really woke up through the entire thing. He said it took him less than twenty-nine
seconds to disarm my alarm. And he said how does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected.”

“What’d he want? What did you tell him?”

“He wanted to know what I did with the Civil War contract. I gave it to Professor Kirby from the University of Florida.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Yes. He was going to hurt Paula—”

“Does he know where the professor’s staying?”

“Yes. Professor Kirby is staying at a hotel. I’m afraid for him.”

“Which hotel, Laura?”

“The Hampton Inn on LaSalle. He said he was in room twenty-three. I have his card with his number.”

“Call him. Tell him to get out of the room. Tell him to go to a Waffle House or someplace well lighted. Then text his number to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Tell the responding officers that you’re working with Detective Dan Grant in an on-going investigation. They’ll call him immediately. Hug Paula for me.” O’Brien disconnected, slipped on jeans, a dark shirt—untucked, and running shoes. He shoved his 9mm Glock under his belt in the small of his back.

Max lifted her head from beneath a small blanket in her oval dog bed on the floor. She stared at O’Brien, puzzled. He said, “Sit tight. Gotta run, literally. Dave or Nick will walk you.” He stepped out to the cockpit, locked the transom door and jogged quietly from
Jupiter
to Dave’s boat,
Gibraltar
. O’Brien used his palm to bang on
Gibraltar’s
sliding glass doors.

Nothing. No movement. O’Brien looked east across the dark marina, the horizon black, the smell of creosote seeping up from the dock pilings. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial button. Four rings and O’Brien whispered, “Dave pick up.”

“And good morning to you.” Dave’s voice was guttural, filtered through sleep-congested vocal cords.

“Open the door.”