Black River (50 page)

“Is there a Confederate flag license plate on the front of the truck?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I’ve seen that truck parked way back in the forest. It’s not far from an area where I cut palm fronds. He lives in a tarpaper shack and trailer. Raises fighting roosters and hunting dogs. I’ve seen a few armed men at his camp from time to time.”

“Take me there, Joe. Now. Let’s cross the river in your canoe. My Jeep’s back at the landing with my Glock and plenty of rounds.”

“Maybe you’ll only need one.”

T
he dawn was breaking across the vast expanse of coconut palms and live oaks in the Ocala National Forest as O’Brien drove his Jeep down a dirt road that was a little more than a winding path into the forest. “We’re close,” Billie said, looking at the terrain.

“How close?”

“His camp is less than a quarter mile, in a clearing to the right. He’s got a cattle gate across the drive.”

“I’m betting he’s got more than that to stop visitors.”

“You mean booby-traps?”

“Yeah.”

O’Brien parked off the road, behind a canopy of cabbage palms. He opened the glove box, getting a second clip of bullets for his Glock. He looked over at Billie. “I know how you feel about killing. I’m hoping it won’t come to that. You can stay here. Wait for me if you want. I’m bringing Kim back.”

“If he has extra men in his camp, you’ll need me.”

“I have some more hardware in the back. You can pick.”

They got out of the Jeep, O’Brien opening the hatch, lifting a green Army blanket. Under it was a 12-gauge shotgun and a crossbow. He said, “Take your pick.”

Billie reached for the crossbow and a half dozen arrows bound together with one strand of quarter-inch rope tied in a bow for easy removal. O’Brien nodded and said, “You’re predictable. But the shotgun is more effective.”

“It announces its presence.”

“There’s something about the sound of chambering a shell that speaks to a man’s soul. Let’s go.”

They moved through the thick vegetation, keeping noise to a minimum. Red and purple bromeliads grew from tree trunks. Spidery air plants, with sea urchin-like tentacle sprouts, clung from the trees like holiday decorations. A wood stork, it’s wingspan stretching five-feet, flew from a dead branch of a bald cypress tree, uttering a primal call that echoed back to the time of the Jurassic period. Joe Billie looked up and then glanced down, following the giant bird’s shadow across the land. He pointed to something near a tree. “Fresh soil. Let’s take a look.”

They cautiously approached a small rise barely higher than the surrounding area. Animal tracks were all over the earth. A hole had been dug in two places. “Bear tracks,” Billie said stepping closer to the hole. “It’s a shallow grave, and a fresh one. Sean, what color is Kim’s hair.”

“Brown.”

“Then this poor girl is not her. She’s someone else’s daughter.”

O’Brien walked up to the hole, staring down at the partially eaten face of a girl, blonde hair matted and bloodied. He stepped back, eyes searching the setting. “I’m betting Silas Jackson killed and buried her. He’s a serial killer, Joe. Hurry!”

In less than ten minutes, O’Brien and Billie were approaching Silas Jackson’s camp. O’Brien looked at the closed cattle gate. The thick and rusted chain was padlocked. He licked his finger and held it up, glancing at the moving treetops. “You said he has a dog.”

“Pit bull.”

“Let’s stay downwind, moving to the right perimeter of the camp and circling back.”

“Look over there,” Billie said, pointing to the path overgrown with weeds and ferns. He stepped closer, kneeling. He gestured towards some dead fern leaves. “These leaves are the only ones around that are dead. They were placed here. Why?”

“Because there’s something under them. Don’t touch it, Joe.” O’Brien squatted down, slowly lifting up the small branches. He motioned toward a
metal cap no wider than a bottle top. It was barely visible in the soil. “Let me see your knife.”

Billie slid a serrated hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. O’Brien began to gently work the blade into the dark soil at an angle about four inches from the metal cap.
Clink
. O’Brien looked up at Billie and said, “IED. Probably homemade. Could be more around here. Good catch. Keep an eye out for tripwires too.”

They continued moving closer to the camp. O’Brien felt a trickle of sweat roll down the center of his back. His mouth dry, his thoughts on Kim.
Please be alive
. Within a minute, they could see through the undergrowth into the camp. O’Brien studied it.

Jackson’s pickup truck was closest to the house. It was a ramshackle mixture of cinderblock, siding the steely color of an old barn, tarpaper on one side, metal stovepipe sticking out of a rusted tin roof. Chickens pecked the hard-packed ground. A dozen A-frame wooden structures housed fighting cock roosters. A thick-chested pit bull, leashed to a chain, crawled under the open porch.

O’Brien gestured toward a second pickup parked near what looked like a run-down cabin. “Probably more than just Jackson here today.”

Billie scanned the perimeter and then motioned with the crossbow. “At least one.”

“And he’s walking toward us. Right now we have the advantage of surprise. He’s got a pistol in his belt. Looks like he just woke up, which probably means he’s got a full bladder and is walking over here to the trees to take a piss.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Neutralize his potential.”

Billie said nothing.

O’Brien watched the man. He recognized him as one of the two men he’d sent packing the day he’d laid Jackson out cold in the truck bed. “Joe, move about fifty feet north. Watch out for traps. When he starts to piss, toss a rock to your far left.”

Billie nodded and slipped away into the scrub oaks and palms. O’Brien waited a few seconds. When the man unzipped his pants at the edge of the tree line, O’Brien crept behind him, careful not to enter the clearing.

Joe Billie tossed a fist-sized rock to within ten yards of where the man stood urinating. O’Brien watched the man turn his head, thick brow, shielded eyes searching for the source of the sound. He continued urinating, one hand reaching to his side for the pistol grip. O’Brien took two quick steps, grabbing the man’s right wrist, lurching his arm hard behind his back, up to the shoulder blades. The arm snapped, the noise like a dog cracking a chicken bone. O’Brien delivered a solid blow to the man’s lower jaw, the force breaking the it. The man slumped on his back, urine flowing from his exposed penis like a yellow fountain splashing onto his dirty jeans.

Billie circled back to O’Brien, glanced down at the unconscious man and said, “He smells like cheap wine and meth.” He looked toward the house. “Dog’s out.”

O’Brien watched the pit bull pace twice and sit. The big dog cocked its head and stared in the direction where they hid behind the edge of the trees. O’Brien whispered, “He hasn’t barked yet. Maybe he won’t. Joe, keep an eye out front. If anyone else comes out of the shack, he’s yours. I’m going to approach Jackson’s house from the rear. I know Kim’s in there. But I don’t know what he’s done to her.”

K
im didn’t sleep. Didn’t want to wake to his rough hands on her body. She knew the real nightmare would begin when he came back into the room. She had lay in the filthy bed waiting for dawn. She’d tried to break the wrist and ankle bands, only causing the metal to dig further into her skin, tearing and causing bleeding. She stared at the corrugated tin ceiling, watched an inch-long cockroach staring down at her, the insect slowly walking to the wall, vanishing in a dirty curtain.

She pulled at the chains, unable to move, unable to scratch or swat as bed bugs crawled out from beneath the dark recesses in the sheets and prickly blanket, sucking blood from the open sores the leeches left behind.

The sun had been up for at least an hour before the door to the bedroom opened, Silas Jackson walking in with a cup of coffee in one hand. Red roses filled a Mason jar in the other hand. He was shirtless, dressed only in jeans. No shoes. No socks. A tattoo covered his chest. It depicted a human skull, a Confederate flag wrapped around the skull as a bandana. Below the skull was a Confederate rose next to a hangman’s noose and letters spelling,
Southern Justice
.”

He set the cup down on a small table and turned to Kim. “I picked these for you, the Confederate rose goes way back in my family.” He placed the roses and Mason jar on the table next to the lock keys and his .45 caliber pistol. “Bet you getting’ hungry. I’ll feed you after we’re done here. You can go pee, but not ‘till an hour after we’re through.” He stepped closer to the bed. “I didn’t mean to hit you in your eye. But you were one stubborn
mare. And now it’s time for the stallion.” He slowly pulled the sheet down to Kim’s waist. He didn’t take his eyes off her eyes as he stroked her breasts and nipples with one hand, fingernails long and impacted with black dirt.

She turned her head from side to side, shutting her eyes, trying to stop the horror of what was happening. He removed his hand. She opened her eyes, nausea building in her stomach, the beat of her heart throbbing in her swollen eye, the taste of blood returning to her mouth.

Jackson unbuckled his belt, dropping his pants to the floor. He had no underwear. He kicked his jeans to the other side of the bedroom, his erection growing as he watched her thrash in the chains. He reached under the sheet, his hand moving down to her pubic area, soiled fingers entering her.

“No! Nooooooo!” She screamed at the top of her lungs. The pit bull began barking outside, a slight breeze puffing the curtains.

O’Brien entered an unlocked window on the other side of the house, moving quickly through the clapboard home, Glock extended in his hands. He walked around open bags of garbage in the small kitchen. Green flies crawling over half eaten pork chops on a paper plate. He checked a spare bedroom. Empty. And then he headed directly toward the area where he heard Kim’s screams.

The bedroom door was partially open. O’Brien saw Silas Jackson climb onto the bed, a wicked smile across his face, Kim chained and lying nude under him. In less than two seconds, O’Brien evaluated the room, the Confederate roses, the keys, the Smith & Wesson on the table.

And he saw the look in Kim’s eyes as she turned her head toward him.

The absolute fear, the horror, the scars that were searing through the core of her being. O’Brien stepped in, aiming the Glock at the grinning skull in the center of Jackson’s chest. Jackson’s last words were muffled in the gunfire. He shouted, “The fuckin’ boyfriend’s back! You drew first blood, mother fucker.”

The bullet hit dead center in the tattooed skull. The second cut right through the Confederate rose over Jackson’s heart. The rounds blew him against one bedpost, his mouth forming an O, his lips shaking, his body falling backwards off the bed.

O’Brien grabbed the keys and quickly began removing the locks and chains from Kim. When the last lock came off her ankle, O’Brien wrapped
her in the sheet and lifted her gently from the bed. She sobbed, her head against his chest. “It’s over,” he said. “I’ll take you to a hospital. When you’re well, we’ll go home. Jackson will never stalk or hurt you again, Kim.” She nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks.

There was the slight sound of the hinges screeching as the bedroom door opened even wider. James Fairmont stood at the threshold, Beretta aimed at O’Brien’s face. He said, “And so we meet again, Sean O’Brien. You probably thought I was dead, especially in your state of mind. I made it appear that way to sever ties with you. This would prompt you to report to M16 that I had drowned in a Florida river. The only reason I came out here was to remove what my former partner, Cory Nelson, called his ‘insurance policy.’ And that was Silas Jackson.”

O’Brien could sense what was coming next. Kim trembled in his arms. He said, “Okay, I did you a favor. So just go. Turn around and walk out the damned door. Vanish to someplace where breached operatives go. I’m sure Sheldon paid you well for the diamond and document. So it’s over. You can disappear.”