Black River (48 page)

“No. The man who killed your best friend and five other people is on this yacht. He can’t escape unless he goes overboard. I’ll find him.”

“If whatever poison is in your bloodstream slows you down, causes you to miss a beat…Fairmont will have the upper hand. He
will
kill you.”

“I’m more concerned about Kim. It’s my fault that Jackson has her.”

“No, it’s not, Sean. I’ll call the sheriff’s office.”

“Don’t. It’s too much cavalry. Silas Jackson won’t be taken alive. He’ll kill Kim, or use her as a hostage in a shootout.”

“Do you have a better suggestion? We don’t have time to—”

“I’ll find her.” O’Brien disconnected. He removed the plastic bag from his jacket, opened it, dropping his phone inside. “In the cloud,” he said, glancing down at Sheldon, slumped in the leather chair, his chest rising and falling.

O’Brien reached for a handful of Kleenex from a box on the desk. He held the tissue to his head, stopping the flow of blood. He gripped the Beretta in his other hand and stepped out into the flickering light in the hallway. He walked quietly back down the passage, not sure whether the guard was still unconscious.

The guard was there, slumped up against the wall, his breathing slow and steady. The woman who’d tried to flee from the cabin was there too. She was lying on her back next to the guard. But she was not breathing. Her head cocked at an abnormal angle, as if someone might twist the head of a doll, the dead woman’s eyes open, the flicking shadows drifting across her confused and lipstick smeared face.

O’Brien stepped around her body, stopping the blood flow from the cut above his eyebrow. He opened the door to the party on the deck, the guests dancing and singing as the band played Bob Marley’s
Redemption Song
.

O
’Brien knew he had very little time before Frank Sheldon’s bodyguards began their search of the schooner. Considering the rich and famous on board, the posse would have to be subtle as the men questioned powerful people and probed every nook and cranny of the sailing ship. O’Brien blended in with the crowd. He had no idea what his face looked like. At this point, many of the revelers were in some form of inebriation. None seemed to notice.

He couldn’t find James Fairmont anywhere on deck. Maybe he was hiding somewhere below deck in any of the cabins.
Where would he go? Where could he go? Life raft
. O’Brien remembered the two dinghies on the yacht’s stern. He ran to the railing and looked over the side. The light of a full moon reflected across the river. But there was no sign of a twelve-foot rubber dinghy on the surface.

O’Brien went to the other side of the yacht. One of the dinghies was just coming around the stern, a man rowing. Fairmont. O’Brien looked at the river’s surface, trying to read the current. He felt for the direction the wind was blowing. The dinghy was now almost fifty feet away from the schooner. O’Brien grabbed a rope from one of the masts, hoisted himself up to the railing and dove headfirst into the river.

“Oh my god!” shouted a raven-haired actress in a short white dress. “Did you see that? He jumped off the fucking boat!”

“Where?” said a tall music composer with a gray goatee.

“There!” She pointed and a dozen guests ran to the side of the yacht and looked down at the river. “He’s swimming to that life raft. Holy shit!” The actress smiled, her mouth wet from champagne. .

“Maybe it’s a stunt,” said an actor wearing a white fedora. “Frank Sheldon knows how to put on a party.”

“If it is, it’d make a great scene,” said an angular stuntman. “Who the hell is that guy?”

A former Special Forces’ guard ran up to the edge. He pulled a 9mm from his waistband. The actor wearing the fedora said, “Wait a damn minute! This is no stunt! Don’t shoot! Dude, call the damn Coast Guard.”

The bodyguard ignored him. Finger on the trigger.

“At ease!” Shouted a senior ranking bodyguard running up. He had a granite jaw and the body of a heavyweight boxer. “The order comes from Mr. Sheldon. We don’t know who’s who out there.”

O’Brien swam hard. He could feel the pain from the piece of syringe needle still in his bone, his head pounding. Within thirty seconds he’d caught the raft. He grabbed the rubber pontoon.

James Fairmont raised the wooden paddle and brought it down hard, as if he was trying to split a log with an ax. O’Brien released his hands, just dodging the heavy blow. When the paddle bounced off the rubber, O’Brien grabbed it, pulling hard. It caught Fairmont off balance. He fell headfirst into the river.

The current pushed hard against O’Brien’s body. The dinghy moved further away, catching the surface current, moving quickly downriver. There was no sign of Fairmont. Maybe he drowned. Then he remembered what Alistair Hornsby had said: “James Fairmont was the kind of recruit who swam the English Channel just to prove he had a little more than the rest. O’Brien felt his muscles tightening. The contents of the syringe moving through his bloodstream. And then, from under the shimmer of the moonlight across the river, Fairmont rose up, a silhouette in the moonlight. He was less than four feet away.

And then he was on top of O’Brien. Almost like there was no physical movement. O’Brien felt the man’s hands around his throat. Fairmont used his thumbs to press into O’Brien’s trachea. He pulled the hands from
his throat, swinging a hard right toward his attacker’s face. There was no connection.

“I’m over here, Sean O’Brien. Things a little distorted, are they? It’ll only get bloody worse. I’ll put you out of your misery, no different than drowning a few kittens.”

O’Brien reached for the Beretta, pulling it from the small of his back. He aimed at Fairmont’s chest and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He dropped the gun, waiting for Fairmont to make a move. O’Brien saw the moonlight turn blood red for a second. He knew the drug was causing the hallucination.
Think. Stay sharp
.

O’Brien felt Fairmont’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. Under the water. The red moonlight gone, the current in O’Brien’s face. He reached for Fairmont’s hands, twisting hard, breaking the vice-like grip. O’Brien swam for the surface. He breathed deeply, looking to the left. The right. Turning around. No sign of Fairmont.

From O’Brien’s back, Fairmont attacked. He wrapped one arm around O’Brien’s neck, putting him into a powerful headlock. He pulled O’Brien down, under the surface, ratcheting the grip tighter, attempting to snap O’Brien’s neck. They dropped further below the surface. O’Brien’s lungs seared. His muscles like lead. He bit hard into Fairmont’s forearm, the taste of blood in the dark water. The grip was released for a second. It was enough time for O’Brien to push his thumb into one of Fairmont’s eye sockets. O’Brien shot to the surface, sucking in the cool night air.

Fairmont popped up a few feet from him. He charged. Raising his clenched fist. O’Brien grabbed Fairmont’s wrist, holding. Then he brought his knee up hard, catching Fairmont between his legs. O’Brien clamped his right hand around Fairmont’s throat, squeezing. He saw dreadlocks grow from Fairmont’s head, the tentacles of hair went in the river water. The tentacles turned to black snakes, mouths gaping, snapping. O’Brien held his grip, squeezing harder.

Then Fairmont stopped fighting. O’Brien stared at his face, one eye bloody, the life drained from the other eye. O’Brien released him, the body floating upright with the current for twenty feet before slowly sinking under the dark surface.

O’Brien shook his head. Had he killed him? Was he really dead? Was it some hallucination? He didn’t know. He tread water. He could see a mist building across the river. The moon coming out from behind a cloud.

He looked around, trying to find the schooner. There it was, in the distance, the three masts visible in the night sky. The masts looked like three crosses, the cross in the center the tallest. And then something moved between each mast. It moved like a pendulum, swinging back and forth. A man hanging from a rope, a boat anchor hooked through his shoulder. He kicked and cried for his mother, hands tied behind his back, his feet just above the surface of the river. O’Brien watched as flaming red eyes circled the dying soldier. The massive gator launched from the water, its jaws clamping on the man’s legs, the sound of cannons and gunfire booming across the river.

A mist rose from the surface, cloaking the man’s body. Then the fog enveloped the schooner, as it drifted into oblivion. O’Brien thought he heard the band playing Marley’s Redemption Song, the singer’s voice far away.
Old Pirates, yes, they rob I…Sold I to the merchant ships…minutes after they took me from the bottomless pit…’

O’Brien wasn’t sure which way was closest to the river bank. His arms felt like they were weighted down. Legs encased in cement.
Swim. Where? What direction?
A movement of light caught his eye. Cutting through the fog, a soft light swung back and forth, as if someone was holding a lamp on the river’s edge. O’Brien swam slowly toward the light. It seemed so far away. The mist rose around him, the sound of frogs in the night. The old river smelled of fish, wet moss and sulfur.

His head went under the surface. Water in his mouth. O’Brien pushed back to the surface. He was drained, the drug now fully in his system. He wasn’t sure if the light was real. But there was no other direction to go. In the fog, it all appeared the same. He looked up at the moon and stars, he thought of Kim. He felt a kick of adrenaline somewhere in his heart.

He tried to swim on his back, looking over his shoulder for the light.

There it was. Closer. Was it real?

A noise. Something splashing. Another noise. O’Brien stopped swimming for a few seconds, listening. The noise again.

Alligators. Probably coming off the riverbank and heading straight for him. O’Brien tried to look through the mist, to see the knotty heads, the red eyes under the bright moon. His heart raced. He thought blood was seeping out of the palms of his hands. His guts burned.

Something moved. A long object. Very near.

A man’s hand shot through the steam off the water. Then, there was Joe Billie’s face, as if he was looking from a cloud. O’Brien felt himself being lifted up and out of the river, set gently into the canoe. The canoe headed toward the moving lamp. And darkness settled over O’Brien like a blanket thicker than the swirling fog.

I
t was the feel of something across her mouth that awakened Kim. Something wet, cold and rough. She slowly opened her eyes. Her right eye was swollen, hard to open. The image fuzzy through the eye. She blinked. Hoping to blink away a nightmare before her. She was in a dimly lit room, candles on a dresser. An oil lamp on an end table. It was still dark outside, moonlight coming through the one window.

Silas Jackson sat on the side of a bed using a washcloth to dab her face. Used it to wash away the dried blood. The crusty congealed blood around Kim’s mouth and severely swollen eye. She used her tongue to feel for the tooth. Gone. A fleshy hole left behind. She wanted to push him away. Kim couldn’t move her arms. She looked to her right and then left. Metal bands clamped on her wrists. The wrist bands secured to chains, the chains locked on the bedposts. He’s done the same with her legs. Pulled them apart, wide, held in place by short chains secured to posts at the foot of the bed.

Kim realized she was nude. She was naked under a sheet turned a pale yellow from oily hair, engine grease, dried sweat and grime. She shuddered. Opened her good eye and said, “Why are you doing this?”

Jackson stopped cleaning her, his dark bloodshot eyes cutting up to her face. “I told you why. I have no choice. You don’t either. The rest weren’t the woman we’ve been looking for—you’re the one to birth a new leader to take back the county.”

“The rest? You’re crazy! Let me go, and I promise you no one will ever know.”

“I told you I got no say in the matter.” He stood, stepped to the window and looked out at the moon over the palms and cypress trees. Then he turned back to her, running the tip of his index finger slowly down her chained right arm. “Miss, Kim, this goes all the way back to Confederate General Albert Pike. He was the visionary. Wise beyond his time. He predicted three world wars. He was a thirty-third degree Freemason who spoke a dozen languages. Harvard educated. He wore Lucifer’s bracelet. General Pike was the architect of prophecy, a new order of the way society would be governed. You can fulfill General Pike’s foretelling.”