Black River (44 page)

The body was propped in one corner. A large rat scurried from the dead man’s lap. Paul Wilson. Face bluish. Eyes wide open. A single gunshot to the center of the forehead. Blood dried and dark. Rat tracks through the blood.

O’Brien’s heart hammered. He swept the flashlight beam in every corner of the old barn, rusted farm tools were strewn on the hard-packed dirt floor. A tattered scarecrow, straw protruding from holes in its red flannel wool shirt, sat up and cross-legged against one wall. There was a single horse stall, door open and leaning to one side, long since vacant. But the
dried ordor of manure still clung in the airless structure mixing with the slight smell of burnt gunpowder, rat feces and human blood.

Where was James Fairmont? How did he lure Wilson into this place? Where would Fairmont go next?

O’Brien’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He lifted it out. The message was from Alistair Hornsby. Here is the latest image we have. Fairmont is six-two. Fifty eight years old. About one seventy-five. Natural hair color blond. Could be any color. Natural eye color green.

O’Brien looked at the face of James Fairmont. Looked into his eyes. Glanced over at the body of Paul Wilson and looked at the vacant, confused eyes. A man deceived. As Hornsby said: ‘
a steer lead to the slaughterhouse.’
O’Brien stared hard at Fairmont’s face and remembered what Nick had said: ‘
But when he bought a round of drinks, and started asking me stuff like had I been following the news about the diamond and the Civil War paper? When he asked, ‘was Sean helping the widow of the dead guy find the stolen stuff ?’…I said yassas in Greek, which means I’m outta here.’

“What’d the guy look like?” Dave asked
.

“About Sean’s height. Probably six-two. Blond fella. Green eyes. Maybe mid-fifties. He looked in good shape for his age.”

O’Brien sent a text to Hornsby: Found Wilson. Dead. You can send your cleaners in. No sign of Fairmont. But I think I know where he’ll go next.

A half hour later, O’Brien pulled his Jeep into the entrance of the Highland Park Fish Camp. He drove down a dirt road, the surface covered with gravel and crushed shells, the moon flashing through the branches of moss-covered live oaks. A plump raccoon waddled across the road. O’Brien drove past trailers and cabins, some with outside lights on. Others dark. The occupants gone to bed early, eager to fish on Lake Woodruff as the sun rose over the St. Johns River in the morning.

O’Brien stopped in front of Joe Billie’s trailer. It was dark, the moonlight bouncing off the silver shell. He didn’t think Billie was home. O’Brien reached in his glove box, ripped a small sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote:

Joe, I may need you and your canoe tomorrow evening. Event involving maiden sail of a large sailing schooner. You have my number, please call for details. Thanks, Sean
.

He got out of his Jeep, stepping on dry pine straw leading up to the front door, the deep-throated boom of bullfrogs coming from the river. O’Brien tapped on the door. No sound of movement. No lights. Nothing. He folded the note and wedged it under the door handle.
Did Joe even own a phone? He could use the fish camp phone
. He didn’t know if Billie would see it, but O’Brien had a gut feeling in his gut that he would need him.

O’Brien drove the back roads returning to Ponce Marina. He wanted to think, to plan. He had to trap one of Britain’s best agents and had to do it quickly. Johnathon Fairmont was still in the area.
Why? What’s keeping him here?
O’Brien called Dave Collins. “Paul Wilson’s dead.”

“I suspected as much. Where?”

“The body’s stashed in an old barn a couple of miles north of State Road 19. I let Hornsby know that he can send in the cleaners. I’m heading back to the marina.”

“I’m sure Fairmont left nothing behind.”

“Only a string of bodies.”

“Dave, the only reason that Fairmont is still in the area has to be tied to Sheldon. Why doesn’t Fairmont take the Civil War contract, the diamond, and leave? I’m betting two reasons: one is he doesn’t want to be carrying them…even in the cargo hull of a plane. And the second is Frank Sheldon. Sheldon was one of the few billionaires who could match resources and assets with the Queen of England in maybe the most expensive auction in the history of the world.”

“So, after a fresh kill, where is the hunter tonight?”

“The bigger question is where will he be tomorrow night when Sheldon throws a bon voyage party before setting sail for England?”

K
im Davis tallied the final receipts from the dinner shift at the Tiki Bar, bagged the money, filled out bank deposit slips, locking everything in the office safe before grabbing her purse on the way out the door. She still wasn’t used to the extra weight the .22 caliber pistol added to her purse. She smiled at Hugh Paulsen, the second-shift manager, ruddy face, Australian accent, wearing a white Panama hat. She said, “I hope you have a good crowd. Is Sammy playing later on?”

“No. It’ll be a new crooner. Lad’s name is Colin Lafferty. He’s a cross between folk and country rock. Talented fella he is.”

“I hope he packs the house.”

“You off tomorrow, Kim?”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow and the next day. Almost a mini-vacation.”

“Got plans, do you?”

“Sleep.” She smiled and walked out into the warm afternoon air. She crossed the parking lot to the left, boats bobbing across the marina, the red brick lighthouse standing in the distance high above the tree line. Kim breathed deeply, the smell of the ocean and jasmine in the soft breeze.

O’Brien moved fast down L Dock, glancing at his watch. Frank Sheldon would be doing a ceremonial sail with America II and invited guests in three
hours. As he walked through the Tiki Bar, two black leather clad bikers took their seats at the bar, a family of tourists, chattering and sunburnt after a half-day on a commercial fishing boat, found seats at two of the wooden tables that were previously used as massive spools for electrical wire. A Buffett song played from the speakers.

O’Brien spotted the manager and asked, “Is Kim still here?”

“No, she left a few minutes ago. Said she’s going home to sleep. She’s got the next couple of days off. You might try her phone.”

Her car sat alone. Parked near the dumpsters at the farthest end of the lot. She heard a dog barking in the distance, the sound of a siren far away toward Daytona Beach. She reached into her purse, finding her keys, touching the pistol, pressing the unlock button. Her parking lights flashed once as the doors unlocked. Her shoulders and feet were sore and she longed for a half hour under a hot shower.

She thought about Sean O’Brien. Thought about calling him just to hear his voice. She’d watched the news bulletins flashing across the TV screens in the Tiki Bar.
Why was it all happening…and now?
So many years after the Civil War.
Where are you right now, Sean? Why can’t we just see a movie and have dinner? Isn’t that what normal people do? He’s not normal. Never will be. That’s all it is and how it always will be. Accept it, accept the man Sean is…or don’t accept it. Maybe he’d found the painting. Maybe police had found the killer. It all started when the old man came to the Tiki Bar with that picture
. She thought about the beautiful woman in the long dress, a rose in her left hand.

Kim reached for her door handle and froze.

It was on front windshield. Against the glass. Propped up and held down by one windshield wiper.

A blood red rose.

“No! Hell no!” she blurted. She set her purse on the hood, reaching for the rose. She ripped up the rose in dozens of pieces, red petals catching the breeze, falling all around her car.

O’Brien stepped out of the screened-in entrance door to the Tiki Bar, turned right and walked quickly toward his Jeep. He could hear some of the customers clinking beer mugs and singing the lyrics to
Margaretville
.

He didn’t see Kim’s car in the immediate vicinity. He wished she’d been in the Tiki Bar so he could have spoken to her, to touch base, even for a minute, before he began the hunt for the rogue British agent, James Fairmont. O’Brien unlocked the door to his Jeep and hit the button to Kim’s phone. It began ringing.