A False Dawn (5 page)

TEN

The morning sun was topping the tree line down by the river when I started for the door.  Max followed me through the house to the front door where she sat down on her rear-end watched me lock the door.  She cocked her head.  I almost expected her to open her mouth and speak.

“Stay here, Max, I’ll be back in a few hours.”  She looked up at me with disbelieving brown eyes.  Yesterday I told Max the same thing and almost caused her to develop a kidney infection.  “All right, you can come along.  Let’s go ask Mr. Billie a few questions.  You’re the only back-up I have.”

#

THE WHITE LETTERS on the cypress plank sign leading into Hanging Moss Fish Camp were faded, but I could still make out the words.  It read: 
Bait, Beer, Boats
.
   Under a dozen live oaks and cabbage palms were single-wide trailers, rustic cabins, and a vintage silver Airstream trailer closer to the river.  I parked the Jeep in front of the bait shop. 

A gunshot popped.  

Max barked.

“Hush, Max!”  I half-zipped the isinglass windows on the Jeep just high enough to keep Max from jumping out.  I shoved the pistol under my belt in the small of my back.  I could see no one.   I eased out of the Jeep.  “Stay, Max!  Keep your head down!”              

A second shot fired.  It came from the direction of the river.  I darted to a fifty-five-gallon trash barrel next to an embankment that gave me a vantage point to look down at the river fifty feet below me.  I followed a worn flight of wooden stairs to a boat dock.

A shirtless man, bare feet grungy, blurred tattoos on both forearms, stood holding a 12-gauge shotgun.  Two boys in their early teens watched something in the weeds.  One boy said, “I’ll get it with a paddle, Daddy.”  He took a paddle from one of the johnboats and reached into the weeds, lifting out a large water moccasin.  Half the snake’s head was blown away.

“He’s still alive!” the youngest boy yelled.

“No it ain’t,” the man said.  “That’s just dying nerves twitchin’ the tail.  Set him down, boy.  Coon’ll come along tonight and eat it.”

The man spotted me and said, “I was cleanin’ some fish over there, turned around and that damn snake had a whole crappie in his mouth.  Like to eat it right off my stringer.  That’ll teach the sons-a-bitch.”

“Don’t think it’ll be back for seconds,” I said.

He sat the shotgun down, shook a cigarette loose from a Camel pack, lit it with a Zippo in his pocket and inhaled a long draw.  He looked out toward the water, blowing smoke from his nostrils.  “River’s full of them.  Moccasins are mean motherfuckin’ snakes.”

I looked at his catch.  “How’s fishing?”

“Pretty good,” he said after taking a second drag.  “I bring ‘em boys up here every year.  We usually do good, exceptin’ three years ago when the river was so high.”       

“Do you know Joe Billie?  He lives here at the camp.”

“Don’t know nobody.  You can check with Doris in the store.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded and flipped his cigarette toward the dead snake.   

Max poked her head out one of the air holes I’d left for her.  She watched me silently as I opened the bait shop's screen door.  The image that hit me was of an old Florida bait shop with a faded postmark and no return address.  Hanging behind the counter was a six-foot rattlesnake skin, filleted open, shellacked and tacked to a cypress board.  Pickled eggs and hoop cheese were sold next to alligator-claw backscratchers.   

No one was in the small store, but the images of ghosts were tacked to one wall.  A father stood next to his daughter and helped the girl hold a stringer of catfish.  A barefooted man in bib overalls held up a bass the size of a roasted turkey.

“Help you?”  He stood at the threshold of a side door and wiped his hands on a towel.  Friendly face, ruddy, perspiring skin.   

“Is Doris here?” I asked

“She’s off.  I’m Carl.  I was skimming dead shiners out of the tank.  Didn’t hear you.”  

“Do you know Joe Billie?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.  He rent here?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“He’s a handyman.  I have some work I need done.”

“I haven’t met anybody named Joe Billie.  You could ask the witch in the blue and white trailer about two hundred yards on the left.”

“Witch?”

“I wouldn’t go there unless you really need to find this guy.”

“Why?”

 “If you stop there, you’ll find out.”         

ELEVEN

As I drove slowly through the fish camp, I tried to match any one of the trailers or cabins with Billie.  They all looked pretty much the same.  A 1950’s feel.  Sagging trailers with aged aluminum the tint of potato peels.  The wooden cabins were painted in varied shades of army green.  Most had screen doors.  All had tin roofs. 

A middle-aged woman stood next to a vintage trailer and watered flowers that looked plastic.  A sign in her patch of green yard read: 
Psychic Readings by Rev. Jane
.
  

I stopped and stepped out of the Jeep.  Her head didn’t turn, but I could tell she was watching me.  Her hair was swept back, covered by a strawberry-colored scarf.  She wore a smock-like dress, dark blue with the images of yellow owls on it.  I stepped closer.  Her skin was alabaster white with tiny blue spider veins just below the surface on her forehead.  Wide emerald green eyes masked detachment.   

A breeze picked up across the river, and wind chimes began tinkling.  The chimes hung like holiday ornaments from the lower branches of the oak.

She waited for me to speak.  “Do you live here?”  

“Two years now.  Moved up from a spiritualist’s camp in Cassadaga.”

Her voice was beyond flat.  It was more distant than the moon.    

“Saw your sign.  Thought you might have some information.  I need—”

She held up one hand.  “I know why you’re here.  You want something.”

“Good guess.  Let me guess, you’re Reverend Jane, right?”  She nodded and watered a sunflower the size of a pie plate.

“It wasn’t a guess.  You want something.  Everybody who comes here does.”

“And what do you want, Reverend Jane?”  She ignored me, turning to water her flowers.  “Sure, I’d like some information.”

Her colorless lips pursed for a brief moment. “Come inside.”

I looked toward Max, who watched without a bark.  Not a good sign for Max.

“Maybe I can just ask you a couple of questions here in the yard.” 

She turned off the water and dropped the hose. “I don’t do readings outside.”

“Not looking for a reading.”

“I know what you’re looking for.”  

“Everybody is searching for something.”

“Not everybody is hunting for who you want.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Indian.  I don’t work for free.” She turned to go inside.  I followed her through a curtain of beads into a dark room illuminated by three burning candles.  The scent of candles was layered with the odor of cigarette smoke, cat urine, and incense.  We sat at a round wooden table.  Tarot cards on its surface.  Cup of black liquid to one side.     

She looked up at me through eyes the now the color of a fresh-cut lime.  “Your dog’s okay where she is.  Nobody’s gonna mess with her.”  She sipped from the black drink.  “Would you like tea?”

“No thanks.”

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s not here?”

“Joe Billie.  Isn’t that who you want?”

“I suppose you know the answer to that.  Did Carl in the bait shop tip you off?”

“Questions like that don’t bother me.  Not anymore.”

“You know who I’m looking for.  Where can I find him?”

“He’ll find you.  That’s if he wants to.  He’s mostly Seminole.  Which means he’s mostly found if he wants to be.”

“Does he live at this fish camp?”

“He’s here sometimes.  Visits the reservation, too.  Where he really lives, even I can’t see that.” 

“Where does he stay?”

Her eyes dropped back to mine.  “The silver trailer next to the river.”        

“Thank you.”  I stood to leave.

“That’s twenty dollars.”

As I reached in my back pocket for my wallet, she stared above my head, her eyes narrowing, mouth opening like a baby bird. 

“She fears for you,” said the woman, her voice now with a hint of compassion.

“What are you saying?  My wife?  Sherri?”

“Angela is her name.”

“Ask her who killed her!”

Catlike, the lime-green in the woman’s eyes changed shades, darkening some.  Her skin twitched once below her right eye.  She was silent.

“What’s her last name?  What’s Angela’s last name?” 

“I see nothing else.”  She closed her eyes for a few seconds.  “I’m tired.”  

I dropped a twenty-dollar bill down to the table.  It landed directly on one of the Tarot cards, covering it.  She opened her eyes and looked at the money for a long moment, picking it up and slowly turning over the single card.  A red patch appeared on her neck.  She continued staring at the card.  “Be warned of the three men.  He’ll send them first.  If you survive, then he will come.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know.”

“Know what?”

“He wears the mark of the serpents.  If you see it the mark…it will be too late.”

“Stop the riddles and cut to the chase.” 

“This is not a riddle.  It’s a prophecy.”  She seemed to breathe for the first time since she sat down.  The dark green eyes were now tired eyes.  

“Who and what are you talking about?  Is it related to the murder of the girl?”

“I don’t know.  I can’t see anything now.  Whatever I said, it’s up to you to decide if you want to believe it.  I need to rest.”  She looked away, folded the money, stood up like her body hurt, and slipped through another set of beads.

Angela
.  Was that the girl’s name?  Had she appeared to the woman?  All of my training and experience in investigations told me it was phony.  Smoke, mirrors, and bullshit.  Even in the stale, recycled air, my neck felt hot.  The room seemed oppressive and dark as a dungeon.  I looked down at the table before leaving.  The single card that the woman had turned over depicted an armored skeleton riding a white horse.

At the bottom of the card was one word: DEATH.  

TWELVE

I closed Reverend Jane’s front door and wondered if Max could sniff the darkness on my clothes that probably clung to me like a curse.  I could smell rain in the wind coming across the marshes.  Two purple martin gourds hung from a pole, clanking into each other in the stiff breeze.  The wind chimes were sounding like an angry bell ringers. 

Max was unusually silent as I approached the car.  Maybe a spell had been cast on her or me.  “If I stink like a dungeon, Max, I’ll put the windows down to get some air in here and blow the ghosts out.”  Her tail resumed its normal blur.  Spell busted.

There was no car in front of the silver Airstream.  I drove by the trailer and parked about one hundred feet away under the boughs of a live oak. 

“Max, I’ll be right back.  Anybody fly by on a broomstick—bite ‘em.”  I pulled out my shirttail, hiding the pistol that was wedged under my belt.

The Airstream looked like an advertisement in a page from an old
Saturday Evening Post
.  Circa, 1950’s.  There was no mailbox.  No address.  

I strolled around the perimeter like a lost fisherman circling the small backyard, which was fifty feet from the river.  A canoe was turned upside down, supported above the ground by two sawhorses. 

The trailer had no rear door.  Approaching the front door, I wasn’t sure whether to knock or kick through it.  The only backup I had was a ten-pound dachshund.  I knocked hard.  I couldn’t hear anyone moving inside.  As I turned the handle, the door opened with a squeak.  I pulled out my pistol and entered.

The smell of burnt wood, dried grasses, and rich humus came from the shadows of the interior.  The tiny living room had a worn rust-colored couch, unfinished wooden rocker and a bookcase.  On the shelves were a dozen small canning jars, each sealed.  Most were filled with tree bark, roots, leaves, soil, and dried berries.

I searched the premises.  Not sure of what I was looking for or what I might find.  Was he a sex offender?  A murderer?   Was he simply cut from a different branch?

The kitchen was smaller than most bathrooms.  No sign of eaten food.  No empty cans in the trash.  The bar-sized refrigerator had no food in it. 

There was a closed door leading to what I assumed was the only bedroom.  My grip tightened around the Glock as I slowly turned the doorknob with my left hand.  How many times in Miami had I felt the same thing?  Entering a rat hole where a killer, high on drugs and adrenaline, was coiled like a snake.  Would Billie be on the other side of the door with a bow pulled back, the tip of an ancient arrow ready to impale me to the wall?   I raised the pistol and shoved the door open. 

Dust danced in the streaming light coming from a single window.  There was a cot next to one wall.  A multicolored Seminole blanket folded neatly at the head of the cot.  On the blanket was an eagle feather.  I knelt down and looked carefully at the feather.  I spotted a long gray hair on the blanket.

The room grew darker as storm clouds blocked the sun.  There was a clap of thunder and rain began to beat the aluminum trailer like a thousand drumsticks.  I sat on the cot, laid my gun down, and picked up the eagle feather.  Holding it, my hand trembled.  I could see dried blood at the base of the quill.

#

LATER THAT NIGHT THE RAIN
tapered to a gentle drizzle.  After I fed Max, I poured two ounces of Irish whiskey and took down a photograph of my wife Sherri from the old river rock mantle.  I walked to the porch and sat.  A whippoorwill sounded across the river.  A sonata of frogs filled the rainy night air.  Under a cone of light spilling from the kitchen onto the porch, I looked at Sherri’s face.  I touched the image, my fingers moving across cold glass.  I longed for her warmth, her smile, her laugh.   God, how I missed her.

#

WE WERE ON
A much-delayed vacation.  Sailing from Miami to Key Largo.  It was later in the afternoon and the sky was splashed in purples and gold.  The sails stretched in a southeast wind.  
Eternity
made a
whoosh…whoosh…whoosh
sound cutting through water, the setting sun reflecting the blush of a twilight sky.  Sherri held the ropes near the bowsprit, her hair dancing in the wind.  Suddenly, on both sides of the boat, two porpoises began leaping out of the water in unison.  

Sherri laughed.  “Look, Sean!  Not only do they have a smile on their faces, it’s in their eyes.  What a fabulous way they see the world around them.”

Six months later, she was in a hospital bed.  Through her fight with ovarian cancer, the chemo treatments, an arsenal of pills, the constant blood work, her eyes never lost their light.  The last week before Sherri’s death, she asked me to take her home.  She wanted to be in our bedroom, surrounded by her books, little Max curled up next to her. 

 The night Sherri died I held her hand and wiped the perspiration from her face.   She said, “Remember the dolphins, Sean?”

“I remember,” I said, trying to be strong when my insides were tearing apart. 

“Remember their smiles…let it remind you how to smile.  Somewhere…you’ve lost that…I miss it in you…promise me two things, Sean.  Promise me you’ll move away from the dark side—the side you enter to try and make a difference.  You need to reclaim yourself.   And that’s where you will make the difference in the lives of others.  And promise me you’ll watch over Max.  She loves you almost as much as I do.”   Her hand trembled as she stroked Max, who had snuggled next to her. 

I leaned over and softly kissed Sherri’s lips.  They were cool.  She smiled one last time as I looked into her eyes and saw the light fade.   

#

I PLACED HER PICTURE
on the porch table, sipped the whiskey and felt it burn in my empty stomach.  I called Max over to my chair and lifted her up.  She licked my chin and lay down in my lap.  I scratched her behind the ears and stared into my dead wife’s face. 

I finished the drink and realized the rain had stopped.  A slice of moon perched far beyond the live oaks.  I sat there in the dark until after midnight watching fireflies play hide-and-seek along the banks of the river, their tiny lights reflecting in the dark current like meteor showers in the night sky.