Black River (51 page)

Fairmont stepped next to the open door. “If I had known you killed Jackson for me that may have been possible. But now you leave me no choice. You know I’m alive and the girl has seen my face. That’s a liability I can’t risk. So long Mr. O’Brien…you’ve been a formidable adversary.” He raised the Beretta, finger curling around the trigger.

The arrow blew through the rusted screen on the window. It hit Fairmont in the throat, the tip entering the wooden door and skewering Fairmont to the door. He thrashed, dropping the Beretta, his hands trying desperately to pull the arrow from the door. Only the feathered end could be seen directly below his Adam’s apple, blood spurting down his pants and across his shoes on each heartbeat. He kicked, a gurgling sound and pink foam coming from his gaping mouth. He cut his eyes to O’Brien, unbelieving, tried to say something, and then his head bowed to his chest.

O’Brien ran by the dying body of James Fairmont, carrying Kim in his arms. He ran outside, Joe Billie standing less than thirty feet from the window, the crossbow in his hands. He looked at Kim and said, “Is she okay?”

“We need to get her to a hospital…but give me thirty seconds.” O’Brien handed Kim to Joe Billie and went back inside. Fairmont was trying to
remove the arrow from his neck. O’Brien raised his Glock and said, “This one’s for Ike.”

Joe Billie drove the Jeep. O’Brien folded the sheet and placed it under the front seat. He wrapped Kim in his Army blanket and held her in the back seat, her head in his lap. She looked up at him, managed to barely open her swollen eye, tried to smile. “I did my best to fight him. He…he…”

“Kim, rest. Just rest.”

“I never lost faith that you’d come.”

“I wish I could have gotten there sooner. When Dave told me your car was in the marina lot, those Confederate rose petals near it…I knew. I tried to get—”

She lifted one hand to his face, dried blood on her fingertips. She touched his chin, softly pressed two fingers to his lips. “Shhhh…it’s okay. You got there. I don’t want to go to the hospital.”

“You need to be checked out.”

“I wasn’t raped. I could use a dentist more than a doctor. I just want to go home. Okay, Sean? Take me home, please.”

O’Brien bent down and kissed her forehead, his eyes watering. “I’ll take you home.”

Kim felt a warm tear splash against her cheek. “I love you, Sean. I love you.”

T
wo days later, O’Brien met with Dave on
Gibraltar
. O’Brien sat on the couch, Max in his lap, Dave making a bloody Mary behind the bar. “Nick’s bringing a bushel of oysters over. He almost swore off oysters after his encounter with Malina.”

O’Brien filled Dave in on everything that happened. Dave listened without interruption, sipping his drink, the breeze off the marina water wafting the curtains hanging on
Gibraltar’s
open port side windows. Dave said, “I feel bad for Kim. Something like this is the stuff that causes post-traumatic stress disorder for a long time. Maybe for life.”

“I’ve spent the last couple of days with her. She’s staying home, inside. I’m going to rent a cottage off Key Largo to take her there. It’s somewhere she loves.”

Dave nodded. “I’ll give Alistair Hornsby a full report. Where’d you put the diamond and Civil War document?”

O’Brien reached inside his sports coat and pulled out the Ziploc plastic bag. “Here you go.”

Dave took it, putting his glasses on, opening the bag and lifting out the diamond. He held it between his thumb and finger in the light. “It’s exquisite. Truly unbelievable in size and brilliance.” He set the diamond on the bar and removed the old document, reading the first paragraph. He looked up over the tops of his bifocals, his eyes wet. “This was the last thing Ike read, probably the last thing he held before he was murdered.”

O’Brien said nothing.

Dave placed the document and diamond back inside the plastic bag. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Give them to Laura Jordan, and go with her so she can place them in a safety deposit box.”

“Do you think she’ll return the stone and contract to the British?”

“Maybe.”

Dave nodded. He looked at the reflection of the sun off the marina water. “So Frank Sheldon is sailing to England. You’ve got the compromising video of him on your phone. Or ostensibly in the cloud. He’s expected to return the painting to Laura Jordan. You said a poem written on the back side of the painting indicates what was left of the Confederate gold might still be somewhere in the river. You think this was the real reason Gus Louden was searching for the painting…maybe he remembered part of it as a kid?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask him.”

Dave inhaled deeply, his cheeks puffing when he exhaled. “Well, we do know that Silas Jackson, a sadist, rapist, possible serial killer—a man with a warped mind so bent you can’t even label it—is dead. James Fairmont, a man with no traceable ID, who we know was a former British agent, was skewered to Jackson’s door by an arrow through neck. Where’s Joe Billie?”

“He told me he was going back to the river to get his canoe. He’d hidden it in the brush when he guided me back across the river that night. Joe could be anywhere right now. He’ll never be connected to any of this.”

“And apparently neither will you. We’ll done my friend. The media are reporting that an apparent drug deal had gone bad in the Ocala National Forest when the bodies of two men, Silas Jackson—a convicted felon, man known to have cooked and sold meth, and an unidentified buyer, a man who drove a rented late-model BMW, were found in a shootout in Jackson’s cabin. Police are saying no one has come forth as a witness. They did indicate it looked like Jackson used a bed in the shack as some kind of sadomasochism sex room. There were wide tracks from tires usually found on pickup trucks. However, only Jackson’s truck was at the scene. All they found alive in the vicinity were roosters, chickens and a dog. And they found a shallow grave, the body of a teenage girl. The information came in from an anonymous tip. I’m assuming that was you.”

O’Brien was silent, scratching Max behind her ears.

“The henchman you laid out on Jackson’s property…he never saw you?”

“No. He’s probably a convicted felon, too. We left him soaked in his own urine. When he awoke, I’m sure he fled, never looking back and never going back.”

“How the hell can you grasp the enormity of this…the murky way it all connected, all from seemingly nowhere, but yet there was an undefined, somewhat overgrown path all along. You just happened to be the one who stumbled upon it. Why?”

“I’m not sure I can answer that. Maybe that burden has been lifted.”

Dave studied O’Brien over the lens of his bifocals for a few seconds. He said, “What started out ostensibly as a hunt for an old Civil War era painting, a portrait of a beautiful enigmatic woman, resulted in fighting another kind of war.”

O’Brien stood. “Can you keep an eye on Max for a little while?”

“Of course. Where are you going now?”

“To rendezvous with Gus Louden and make a delivery to Laura Jordan.”

Nick approached, came across the catwalk with a bushel of oysters on chopped ice. He said, “Sean, man, where the hell you been? Did you find Kim?”

“Yes.”

“Is she okay?”

“She’s going to be fine.”

“What happened? Where are you heading?”

“Dave can fill you in. I have an errand to run.”

“How about a lunch of oysters and Corona before you go? You never know, Sean. You might get lucky and find a pearl.”

“You’re right about that, Nick. Save one for me.”

O’Brien turned and walked down L dock, a Vagabond sailboat leaving its slip, from the cockpit speakers came the Bob Marley song,
No woman, No Cry
.

O
n the way to Laura Jordan’s home, O’Brien called Gus Louden. He said, “I found your painting.”

“Where is it?”

“In transit.”

“It’s being shipped to Laura Jordan’s home.”

“Shipped? From where? Where did you find it?”

“Let’s just say I recovered it. But I did find the writing on the back side of the painting. The information you recited to me when I first met you was there. And so was something else?”

“What?”

“I believe you know. Why didn’t you tell me your great, great grandfather had written a poem, an homage to the sacrifice of war and an indication as to where the remains of the Confederate gold might be found?”

“Because, to be frank with you, I couldn’t remember much if it. I was just a kid. It was the note to my great, great grandmother that stuck with me the most. Mr. O’Brien, I’ve been very fortunate in many respects. I’ve made and earned a lot of wealth. Any remaining treasure from the CSA, after pilfering, probably doesn’t amount to much by today’s measurements. But what does have immense value is the discovery of the painting itself. May I have the opportunity to purchase it?”

“I’m going to give the owner your contact information.”

“Thank you.” He sighed. “The police found my son’s body. They believe he was shot and killed in a drug deal.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Louden.”

“I can’t say his death was unexpected. Inevitable, probably. Even you suggested that. I just wish he could have learned that his relative, Henry Hopkins, was never a coward.”

O’Brien said nothing.

“I’ll send you a check. You earned it. Thank you.” Gus Louden disconnected.

O’Brien and Laura Jordan sat at her kitchen table, sipping coffee, Paula playing with two friends and a dachshund puppy on the patio. O’Brien looked out the bay window and smiled. “The puppy reminds me of Max a few years go.”

“She’s so sweet. Great with Paula and the kids. We named her Peanut.”

He reached in his sports coat pocket and lifted out the diamond and Civil War contract still sealed in the Ziploc plastic bag. “These are for you.”

“You found them. How? Where? How’d you track them down?”

“A lot of trial and error. Cory Nelson was trying hard to fence them. He circulated in areas where he never should have gone. That’s what got him killed. The important thing is that these were yours and Jack’s. And now you have them back.”

“And I have the painting back, too. It arrived by courier yesterday. He said he didn’t know who’d sent it or where it had come from. All he knew was someone wanted it delivered to me. Do you know anything about that, Sean?”

“I know that it’s back where it started. But should you want to sell it, I have a buyer.”

“When it was delivered, the painting came wrapped in brown paper. Inside was an envelope with ten one hundred dollar bills. There was no note. Just the painting and the money. Jack and I only paid two hundred dollars for it and the old magazines.”

“Maybe whoever returned it was paying you interest for your time and money.” O’Brien reached in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Here’s the number for the man who originally hired me to track down the painting. He’d love to have it back in his family.”

“I’ll contact him. I also need to contact someone in the British government.”

“Why?”

“Jack wanted the diamond and the old contract returned to the Royal Family. I think it’s the right thing to do.” She glanced down at her finger, her wedding and engagement rings shining in the light coming through the window. She smiled. “Besides, I have the biggest diamond I’ll ever need. Jack gave me this when he proposed. It’s worth more to me than all the diamonds in the world.”