Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (10 page)

Silence. The bee returned, flying near Jesse’s face. He swatted it, turning his head and sidestepping. “Damn bee!”

“Why you got a gun in your pocket if’n you talked to my mama?”

Jesse whirled around to face a tall black man. Jeremiah Franklin stood ten feet away. He wore bib overalls, a white T-shirt with holes in the center, his bare arms muscular, large hands, steady coal black eyes, a bit of gray in his hair. He held a three-prong pitchfork in one hand, staring at Jesse. “I’m hopin’ you don’t reach for that pistol in your pocket.”

Jesse raised his hands, shook his head and smiled. “No…hell no. I’m not reachin’ for my gun. A man never knows if he’ll walk up on a rattler in this country.”

“What you want wit’ me?”

“Jeremiah, do you remember me? I’m Jesse Taylor. First time I saw you it was below the Bellamy Bridge on the Chipola River. You and some old man were fishin’ and ya’ll were hookin’ blue gill like nobody’s business. I was fishin’ just down river from you and never got a bite. The old guy you were with sort of took pity on me and showed me the right way to thread a worm on a hook.”

“That was my grandfather.”

“He was good with a cane pole. It wasn’t long after that I was sent to the Florida School. My stepfather told the law I stole his car. I was barely fifteen. How is a few minute joyride and comin’ back home stealin’ a car? Anyway, you came into the school not long after your brother, Eli, was sent there. I think ya’ll were about a year apart in age. I guess kids like you and me were lucky. We walked outta there. Your bother and others like Andy Cope didn’t.”

Jeremiah said nothing. He held the pitchfork, his dark black skin glistening under the Florida sun. He stuck the pitchfork in the soil. “I remember you. Why you here now?”

“Because another one of us died, a fella named Curtis Garwood…you might recall him, too. Anyway, he killed himself, and in the suicide letter he wrote a lot of it had to do with his suffering through the years because of what happened to him at that school. Curtis said he heard them shoot Andy that night. It was pourin’ rain, but he heard it. Said the man’s voice sounded like the bastard we called the Preacher. What’d you see that night?”

He folded his large arms. “What makes you think I seen anything?”

“Because your mama told me what you told her when you got out. Look, man, I served in Nam, and nothin’, not a damn thing I saw and experienced, and I saw the worst, none of it affected me like what they did to me in that school. They had no right, Jeremiah. We were just kids. The shit they did to the white kids wasn’t nearly as bad as what they did to the black kids. I remember you told me you saw the hand of a little black boy in the hog trough. Did you see ‘em shoot Andy? Who pulled the trigger?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you can do. Them days are gone, buried, man. Nobody cared then and nobody sure as hell don’t care now. Look at all the hate in this country. Ain’t nothin’ changed.”

“I’ve changed, or maybe I’m changing. Took me all my life, but I finally figured if I’m not contributing to good then I’m part of the bad. After I read Curtis’s obituary, I read a letter he wrote to an investigator who’s working for Curtis’s sister. Curtis said he heard Preacher’s voice that night before they shot Andy. This thing could get some momentum and maybe a grand jury will do something. If nothin’ else, we might get court orders to hunt for bodies on that land before it’s a fuckin’ golf course. You want a smoke?”

“Don’t smoke.”

“Mind if I do?”

“Long as your lighter ain’t in your back pocket?”

Jesse grinned. “I don’t blame you.” He lifted a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket, shook one out, pulled the lighter out of his front jeans pocket and lit the cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. “Man, I wouldn’t blame you if you ran that pitchfork right through me. Like I say, the black kids got it worse than the rest of us.” He smiled. “But at least you can use your hands to pick an apple off a tree. Preacher got pissed ‘cause I tried to use my hands to cover my ass when he was beatin’ me, blood flying on the walls of the White House. So he had another man hold my wrists, putting my hands on a block to teach me a lesson.”

Jesse held the cigarette in his right hand, slowing turning the back of the scarred hand around. He smiled. “Remember when you told me to call you Jerry? You said you didn’t know any black kids named Jerry, but a few had the name Jeremiah. You brought me a peanut butter sandwich one night when they kept food from me because I spit in the grass.”

Jeremiah stared at Jesse’s hand, then looked into his eyes. “Yeah, I remember. I was in a tree the night they shot Andy.”

“A tree?”

“The lone oak a little ways past the hog pen. I’d just taken the last of the kitchen scraps to the hogs, and for some reason I just kept walkin’. Then I heard ‘em chasin’ somebody. There was a low-hanging branch on that old tree. Made for easy climbing. I used to jump up, grab it and climb into the tree. It was the only place I could get away without running away. Somehow, man, I felt closer to the stars just bein’ twenty feet off the ground. Andy was running across the field. They were chasin’ him, laughin’, callin’ him names like sissy and faggot. When Andy ran toward the tree…they shot him dead right below me. I was so scared they’d hear me up there. I could smell the whiskey all over them when they lifted up Andy. After they left, I stood on a limb, shaking, hugging the tree and cryin’ like a child.”

Jesse nodded. “You were a child. Who killed him?”

“One of the reasons I’m still alive, still here in Jackson County, is ‘cause I never said anything. They would have kil’t me like they did my brother, Andy and others. If word got out I was gonna testify today, they’d probably hang me.”

“You can get witness protection. Stay out of sight ‘til the trial.”

“How ‘bout after the trial? Who’s gonna keep ‘em away then?”

“Answer me this then…is he still alive?”

Jeremiah said nothing.

“Your mama wants to bring Eli’s body home to a proper resting place. What you say could make that happen.”

“She’s the only reason I stay here.”

“Man, if you follow the picking seasons, once this is over you can keep goin’, never come back.”

“Isn’t that running away? This old bus ain’t much, but I got two deeded acres on this creek bank. One day I plan to build a little house here. It’s funny in a weird way—I follow the pickin’ seasons, workin’ with crops, and all I ever really wanted was to put down roots. Maybe find a wife. But I never stopped lookin’ at shadows on the wall.” He watched a dragonfly hover near the top of the school bus. “Lemme think ‘bout it. I’ll talk to mama, and I’ll let you know.”

“I’ll write down my number. I need to ask you this…is he still alive?”

“He’s above ground.”

SEVENTEEN

W
hen I closed my laptop, I opened a possible door into the Florida School for Boys. Since I walked Max at sunrise, I’d been sitting in
Jupiter’s
salon researching the former reform school, which closed in 2011 under the name Dozier School for Boys. I knew its history, the names of superintendents through the decades, the complaints of abuse filed against the school, and had a possible glimpse into its future. The Department of Corrections was taking bids from development companies interested in purchasing the land and buildings. There were a few days left before the sales window expired.

I was about to become an interested party.

“Max, hold the fort down while I shower and pack.” She was lying on the salon couch, eyes half closed. She lifted her head and yawned. I shut down my computer and hit the head for a shower. I hadn’t been under the water thirty seconds before I heard my phone ring. I finished, towel dried, put on fresh jeans and a sports shirt. Fine attire, I figured, for inspecting property.

I picked my phone off the bar in the salon. A voice-message was waiting for me. “Hey, I’m trying to reach Sean O’Brien. This is Jesse Taylor—a friend of Caroline Harper. She wanted me to give you a shout. She said you’re good at this investigation stuff. There’s a lot of shit goin’ on up here in Marianna that you need to know about. It goes back to when I was locked up at the school from hell. Maybe I can help you…maybe we can turn over a few rocks and watch the
spiders run…right a few wrongs that are long overdue. You got my number. I’ll tell you what I have so far.”

I hit the redial button. After three rings a voice-mail message begin: “This is Jesse. You know what to do at that damn beep.”

“Jesse, looks like I just missed you. This is Sean O’Brien. Caroline and I both appreciate you looking under rocks. You might want to take it easy until I can get up there. I’d like to hear what you’ve found, maybe what you suspect. But it’s probably a good thing to keep a low profile. I’ll call you when I get to Marianna.” I disconnected and scrolled down my contact list until I found the name and private number of an FBI friend of mine in Tampa.

Carly Brown answered on the second ring. “Sean O’Brien. What do I owe the honor of this call? Maybe it’s personal and you have a magnum of champagne and a sailboat for a long weekend.”

“It’s good to hear your voice. How’ve you been, Carly?”

“No complaints. I have twelve years with the bureau now. If they ever reassign me to a field office in North Dakota, that’s when I’ll turn in my badge. Hey, I hear you’re doing some PI work.”

“Off and on. More off than on.”

“It’s always on here. What’s up? Are you in Tampa or are you coming to town. Just want to know what I’ll need to tell my current flame—a flame that’s more like a candle flame.” She laughed and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Carly, I wish I were in Tampa. I’m about to head to the opposite end of the state, a town called Marianna.”

“Sound’s like a town named after some guy’s wife. What’s there?”

“Maybe a lot of bodies—bodies of kids.” I told her most of what I knew and then asked, “How long would it take to do an electrostatic recovery analysis on the shell, the brass head?”

“It depends. So you think there’s a latent and micro-etching that might produce a find?”

“Maybe. Only one way to find out. Can I overnight the casing to you?”

“Sure. If this does turn into a killing field for kids, the bureau will be there anyway.”

“Thanks, Carly. I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing but three days and nights on blue water. Bye, Sean.”

I dropped the shotgun casing into a Ziploc bag, placed it in a small shipping box and labeled it. I’d stop by the post office and send it next-day delivery to the FBI office in Tampa. I packed a bag, extra rounds for my Glock, locked
Jupiter
, and hit the dock with Max trotting a few steps ahead of me.

Nick sat in
St. Michael’s
cockpit taking a large fishing reel apart, a web of fishing line next to his bare feet. He was mumbling, cursing, his monologue cutting from English to Greek and back again. He looked up at us and grinned. “How long you and hot dog been standin’ there lookin’ at me like I was a bear?”

“A grizzly wouldn’t need a rod, reel and two-hundred yards of line to catch a fish dinner.”

Nick lifted a large ceramic mug of coffee, steam spiraling from the top. “And good mornin’ to you, Sean O’Brien. You and Maxie just roll outta the sack, huh? You get into some ouzo last night and didn’t invite me?”

“Actually, when Max and I walked by
St. Michael
a couple of hours ago, she almost barked when she heard the snoring coming from your salon. Thought it was a hibernating bear.”

“Come here, hot dog. We gotta talk.” Max looked at Nick, snorted, and then headed towards Dave’s boat, a trace of Canadian bacon in the air. Nick shook his head. “You’re a ten-pound traitor.”

“She smells bacon from Dave’s galley. Come on, Nick. Give your thumbs a rest.”

The three of us walked down the narrow boarding dock that led from
Gibraltar’s
bow to stern, the smell of bacon, Irish cheese and dark coffee greeted us. Dave stood in the galley making breakfast. He looked over his bifocals and shouted, “Come aboard! Thank God I have people and a pooch to help me eat this feast. I was about to send an invitation, but you beat me.”

We entered through the open sliding glass doors, Dave coming up two steps from the galley with a platter of omelets, potatoes and onions, and at least three pounds of Canadian bacon stacked like hotcakes. Max almost did a backflip. We took seats around a square table that substituted as a large chessboard on occasion. I glanced over the bar to the wahoo mounted and hanging on the wall. I thought of Curtis Garwood, thought of the scars on the back of his legs.

Dave said, “I have paper plates that look like bone china. Pile it on gents. Maxine, we’ll give you some bacon and eggs.” Dave fixed Max a small plate and set it on the floor of the trawler, Max finished the scoop in seconds. The rest of us took our time.

I said, “Speaking of Max, if you guys can keep an eye on her for a few days, I’d appreciate it. Her leash is on the nail in
Jupiter’s
galley next to her dog food.”

Nick shook his head, lifting Max to his lap. “Hot dog won’t be eating that stuff. Between Dave and me, she’ll eat like the dachshund duchess of the docks.”

Dave sipped black coffee for a second and then said, “From what I’ve been able to discover, just doing a little research, is the state—at least the Department of Corrections, has no real interest or anything to gain by investigating decades of alleged impropriety, abuse and maybe even murder. When they closed that institution in 2011, they pretty much dusted off their hands of any culpable liability. And now they want to sell it and let some developer sweep a century of dirt under the rug. You will be the camel sticking his nose under a closed tent.”

Nick swallowed a mouthful of omelet. “Where can you even start, Sean? It’ll be like stepping into Mayberry—a place where nobody even jaywalks. Hear no evil and all that shit.”

Dave nodded. “Nick’s got a point. The philosophy behind the archetypal three wise monkeys, from the Buddist viewpoint, is to stay away from trouble by not listening to it or not repeating it. In the western world, it’s more about turning a blind eye. In Marianna, the old reform school was probably one of the largest employers. Generations worked there. If someone were ever brought to trial, a change of venue may be the first move a prosecutor would request. You’d have to find irrefutable evidence.” He glanced at the small box. “Is it there?”