Black River (4 page)

Louden reached for the file folder, opened it, and handed O’Brien a picture of a woman wearing a formal dress. She had long brown hair, high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and she was smiling, something O’Brien rarely saw in photographs from the Civil War era. The woman was photographed standing near a river. Louden nodded. “I think the lady in the picture was my great, great, grandmother. This is a copy made from the original photograph donated to the museum. The story of the finding was in USA Today, too.”

O’Brien looked closely at the woman’s face. “Where was the picture taken?”

“I never knew. Looks to be here in Florida, the palms and river in the background.”

“Why is it so important for you to prove that the woman in the framed photo is related to you?”

“I mentioned that I was raised in the South, in and around Charleston. Families and their reputations go way back. Honor, commitment, bravery…they are all traits we believe in and don’t take lightly. It’s a handed-down heritage.” Louden, his face filled with concealed thoughts, stared at an open space over O’Brien’s shoulder. He exhaled a deep sigh and met O’Brien’s eyes. “My great, great grandfather was said to have been someone General Robert E. Lee had taken under his wing. My father once told me that he’d heard General Lee so trusted my great, great grandfather that the general assigned him a very important mission. We don’t know whether he succeeded or failed.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because no one ever saw him again. He became absent-without-leave. And, if he was killed in action, his body was never identified. The whispers in the South, in Charleston in particular, grew louder, especially the first fifty years after the war ended. For generations of southerners, they believed he was a coward. A man who ran away, someone who hid, retreated rather than face his sworn duties and the enemy. They believe he was one of the biggest cowards to have ever put on a gray uniform. Some of the elders said he ran from the Confederate Army the night before a battle and hid, finally making his way out West, leaving his young wife and children behind. He was never seen again.”

O’Brien nodded. “So, if this copy of a photo currently housed in the Confederate Museum is your great, great grandmother, it will prove that one of the men found dead on the battlefield was carrying it. And the man carrying it was her husband—a soldier who did not run away but was, instead, a brave man because he fought until his death. Most likely, since the photograph was found next to his body, the last thing he saw was the image of his wife, which he probably pulled from his rucksack as he lay dying.”

The old man’s eyes widened, color blossoming in his pallid cheeks. “Yes sir. It would indeed prove that.”

“Why come to me?”

“Because I hear you find things, you find people. If you can find that painting, I remember there was writing on the back, written by my grandfather. Although I was only thirteen, it struck me so profoundly, I memorized what he wrote, and hoped one day I’d find a wife like he had.” The old man closed his eyes briefly searching the archives of his memory, and then he said in a whisper, “He wrote,
‘My Dearest Angelina, I had this painting commissioned from the photograph that I so treasure of you. We shall display the painting prominently in our home for all to see…as your beautiful face is always displayed privately in my heart.’”
He turned to O’Brien. “Will you help me? If the painting survived, it will match this photo, more importantly, will correct history and right a terrible wrong, a bad reputation that my great, great grandfather did not deserve, and a stigma his family had to endure.”

O’Brien studied the image closer. The woman in the photograph stood near a river, smiling. Visible in the sepia tone image was a single flower she held in one hand. He cut his eyes up to Kim who was laughing, watching Max, and serving a charter boat captain a beer. O’Brien thought Kim resembled the woman in the picture. He said, “She’s very beautiful. I can understand how your great, great grandfather would have commissioned a portrait of this woman, his wife. I’ve tracked down a lot of things in my life, but I’ve never searched for a 160-year-old ghost.”

“I’ve been blessed, very successful in business. My time is running out. I’m battling pancreatic cancer. Before I die, I’d love to see this solved. I’ll
pay all of your expenses, plus ten-thousand to search for the painting. Fifty-thousand if you’re successful. Will you do it, Sean?”

“What was your great, great grandfather’s name?”

“Henry Hopkins.”

K
im Davis filled a cold mug with a craft beer, handed it to a customer at the bar, and watched the old man shuffle out the Tiki Bar door into the wash of bright sunlight in the parking lot. She tossed Max a piece of cheddar as Sean O’Brien set the folder on the bar. Kim said, “Well, well, looks like whatever’s in that folder was enough to make you want to keep it.”

O’Brien smiled. “Nothing to keep, really. Just a copy of an article in a newspaper, a photograph, and an address.”

“Okay, I’m curious. If you don’t mind me asking, what did the gentlemen want?”

“He’s looking for something long ago from his past…something, that if found, might change a long-held legend or perception of his family.” O’Brien told her the story the man had left with him.

Kim splayed both of her hands on the top of the bar and leaned closer to O’Brien. “So, are you going to take the job?”

“I don’t know. On first pass, I’d say no. But there’s something in the old man’s eyes, a quiet dignity, a long-distance stare…a last hope. I don’t know if I can help. I said I’d think about it and let him know.”

“Seems innocent. I mean, you’re just looking for a painting, right? Not an old body, a fresh body, or anything threatening. The change might do you some good, Sean. Can I see the picture?”

O’Brien opened the folder and slid the copy of the photograph onto the bar. Kim looked at it, her eyes growing wider. She moistened her bottom lip.
“That, woman…she looks familiar…like I’ve seen her somewhere before, at least I’ve seen the image. I just can’t say exactly where. So this woman was that man’s great, great grandmother?”

“That’s what he says.”

“She’s beautiful.”

O’Brien looked up from the picture to Kim. “That’s what I thought. She’s striking. So you really think you’ve seen this before? He said it was on the news, CNN, in this USA Today story, and other news outlets.”

“No, I didn’t see it on TV or online. I believe I saw it somewhere else. I just can’t place it. It’s like trying to recall puzzle pieces from a day-old dream. Oh well, maybe I’ll think of it. You said the man left an address, too. Whose address?”

“The home of the person who donated the photograph to the Confederate Museum.”

“What real use is that if whoever donated it told the museum they didn’t know the identity of the woman in the photo?”

“Because sometimes an old photo is stored with other things that might shine some light into the past.”

“Hey, Kim,” shouted a charter boat captain at the end of the bar. “Turn up the sound on the TV. Looks like some poor bastard got nailed in the Ocala National Forest.”

“Hold your horses, Bobby,” Kim said, reaching for the remote control. She pressed a button and the sound became louder.

On screen, a news reporter stood in the Ocala National Forest, the images quickly cutting to video of flashing blue and red lights from police and emergency vehicles. Police and paramedics worked the scene behind yellow crime tape wrapped around cypress trees laden with Spanish moss. A white sheet was pulled over a body lying on a gurney, a red flower of blood in the head area, detectives in the background questioning men dressed in Civil War uniforms.

The reporter looked into the camera and said, “Police investigators are initially saying the death is most likely an accidental shooting. The victim, a long-time Civil War re-enactor, is described as a man in his late thirties, someone who spent occasional weekends participating in Civil War battle reenactments. Police say the shooting happened when a movie crew was
filming a battle scene between re-enactors playing Union and Confederate soldiers in the production of a movie called
Black River
. The man may have been shot with a Minié ball, which is a bullet used in vintage Civil War era rifles. All of these old rifles are supposed to be firing blanks. However, one was not. I’m told there are more than two hundred extras on the film, evenly divided between actors playing Union and Confederate soldiers. Filming the movie, which is described as a big-budget Hollywood feature, is suspended pending the results of the investigation. Detectives want to know how the Minié ball got in the chamber of one of these old rifles…maybe a horrible oversight that now has resulted in a death. If somehow this death points toward a homicide…detectives will be searching for a motive, and that would make this unfortunate incident like something found in a mystery movie script. The name of the man killed is being withheld pending notification of relatives. Live from the Ocala National Forest, this is Mike Stratton, Channel Seven News.”

The charter boat captain, a barrel-chested man with sunspots the size of dimes on his bald scalp, said, “Doesn’t sound like an accident to me. Lot’s of crazy shit happens out there in the national forest. I know it sounds weird, but I wonder if they were filming exactly the time the fella got shot.”

Kim blew out a deep breath. “Come on, Hank, that’s morbid.” She glanced down at the photo on the bar and then raised her caramel eyes to meet O’Brien. “That’s odd, Sean. Here we are talking about a lost Civil War era painting possibly being connected to the unknown identity of this woman in the photograph, and a Civil War re-enactor dies on a movie set doing a mock battle. I know it’s just coincidental, but I got goose bumps on my arms. Another thing…remember when I told you I did some acting back in college?”

“I remember.”

“I’ve always had the acting bug. Once bitten, I suppose. Anyway, when they had an open casting call, I drove to the production office and auditioned.”

“You didn’t mention that.”

“Probably because I didn’t get the bit part I auditioned for. I was out most of the day. Met a lot of Civil War re-enactors the producers were
recruiting. I hope to God that one man I spoke with wasn’t the poor person killed on set. I can’t remember his name, but I do remember one of them kept staring at me. He was weird. I’m actually glad I didn’t get the part if I’d have had spent time on set around that man.”

“Maybe he wasn’t hired.”

“Maybe. But now good old reality comes along in a non-scripted scene in real life where that older man walks in here with a 160-year-old Civil War puzzle, and he’s asked you to solve it for him. That’s the kind of thing that gives me goose bumps.”

O’Brien slid the photo back in the folder, closed it and smiled. “You have an active imagination.”

“Sometimes, but when I first saw the old man guarding that folder on the table waiting for you, I felt it was harmless. Now, I’m not so sure.”

“It’s only an old photo. Come on, Max. Let’s head down the dock to
Jupiter
. We have some work to do.” O’Brien stood. He looked at Kim. “Don’t worry. I haven’t even taken the job. Finding a 160-year-old painting would be like finding the proverbial needle in the haystack of time. The question is where is the painting today? It might not still exist.”

“But like the old man said, Sean, you have a way of finding things…or they have a way of finding you. Maybe it’s because you have the courage to look under the rocks.”

“I’ve got to fix a bilge pump on
Jupiter
. See you later.”

Kim watched O’Brien step out the restaurant door facing the marina. She looked through the open window as he walked down the long dock, the sound of laughing gulls in the warm breeze, a flock of the white pelicans sailing over the moored boats.

She glanced down at her tanned upper arms, the warm breeze doing nothing to make her goose bumps go away.

N
ick Cronus stuck his head out of the open window of the wheelhouse and shouted to O’Brien, “Sean, great timing—grab the stern line, and tie it to the white cleat.” Nick reversed the engines of his forty-foot fishing boat and backed into the slip as easily as a New York cabbie parallel parking. He stepped down from the wheelhouse and tossed O’Brien a rope. Max paced the dock, eyes bright, barking twice while Nick quickly climbed back in the captain’s chair and worked the bow-thrusters, inching the boat closer to the dock.