Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (3 page)

His thick, white hair was thinning, a pink scar now visible an inch above his left temple. He shook open the newspaper, his sea-blue eyes narrowing through weak glasses, drugstore readers he’d bought almost two years ago. He glanced out of the kitchen window and watched a twenty-year-old pickup truck rattling through the trailer park, which was dotted with sagging and faded mobile homes. The sun was clearing the top of a cottonwood tree. A skinny, mixed-breed dog sniffed through garbage that lay spilled from a trashcan tipped on its side.

Three wives had left him through the years. The longest marriage lasted than a decade. He tried counseling. Tried religion. Nothing worked for long. The demons circled in the shadows just beyond the edge of his peripheral vision, the frail spokes on a rickety wagon pulled by a stubborn mule hitched to his subconscious. He hated the failures, but more importantly he hated how he’d failed as a father. He’d sworn never to beat his sons like he’d been beaten. But maybe
back then, when he was locked away for truancy from school, the men had left more than scars across his butt and legs.

Maybe fifty-two years ago they’d beaten his soul out of his body.

They’d wielded a wide leather strap, similar to the straps barbers used to keep an edge on their razors. The boys were told to lie face down on a cot, grip the crossbar at the head of the cot, bite into a soiled pillow that reeked of dried vomit, blood and salty tears. And then the first crack of leather across buttocks.
Ka-pow
. It was the first lash that hurt the worst, Jesse remembered. It usually drew blood. After the twentieth stroke, you were almost numb to the pain, pieces of underwear embedded in the bloody wounds. By the fortieth lash, your soul had crawled away to hide. Your spirit, broken and severely wounded, seemed to leave your body behind in a hot, smelly room with dried blood splatter on the walls and ceiling in an isolated building the men called the White House.

“You scream, boy, and we start over again,”
Jesse remembered the man in the black fedora say the first time.
“Bite into that pillow. It’s for your own good. You hear me, boy?”

Jesse blinked hard, glancing down at the newspaper, his wide hands smoothing out the fold, his eyes moist. He studied the obituary
. Lots of deaths this week. Mostly older folks. People in their eighties
. A combat World War II veteran. A former Detroit Tigers pitcher who retired to Florida twenty-five years ago. A seventeen-year-old girl who died when her car was struck by a drunk driver.

And then there was a name he knew.

It was the last name on the list. Curtis Garwood, originally from Tallahassee, a resident of Jacksonville since 1999. Graduated from Florida State University. The survivors include his wife, two grown children, and one grandchild. The cause of death wasn’t listed. Curtis Garwood
dead at age sixty-four. The obit described him as a loving husband and devoted father.
Then God bless you
, thought Jesse.
You managed to somehow bury it when so many of us who were held there never did. Never could
. He exhaled deeply, the sound of an acorn popping off the aluminum roof, the last drip of coffee falling into the carafe, the coffee maker exhaling a
whoosh
sound. The obit read that in lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to be made to St. Michael’s Hospital. Jesse glanced up from the paper for a moment. He recognized the name of the hospital. It was for psychiatric patients.

He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, reading the name of the funeral home. He reached behind, removing a stack of newspapers, picking up a phone book and rifling through the pages. He found the number and punched the keys on his phone.

“Anderson Brothers Memorial Services, this is Shelly. May I help you?”

Jesse cleared his throat. “Yes…a friend of mine passed.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. How may I help you?”

“His name is Curtis Garwood. It looks like your funeral home is doing the arrangements. When’s the viewing?”

“I’m sorry, the family requested a closed casket service. It’s tomorrow between one and five.”

“I’m coming from out of town. Did Curtis pass away in a car accident?”

“Not that I’m aware of. It appears the cause of death was suicide. I’m sorry. I understand that Mr. Garwood was about to enter hospice care for a terminal condition.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Jesse disconnected. He flipped through a small Rolodex, finding a card under index marker G. He lifted out the card, stained and worn thin over time. He studied
the name for a moment, then dialed the number. “Hank, it’s Jesse. Did you hear that Curtis Garwood died?”

“No. How’d it happen?”

“Suicide.”

After a few seconds of silence, the man said, “Damn, Jesse…I’m sure as hell sorry to hear that. I haven’t seen Curtis in years. Like all of us, though, I know his burden was heavy.”

“Yep. Maybe some of ‘em are still alive. They need to pay for what they did to so many boys. You want to go with me…back to Jackson County?”

“You fall off the wagon again? Jesse, you been drinkin’?”

“No. I haven’t touched whisky in sixteen months. Curtis might have had cancer in his body, but his soul was eaten up way before his body took sick. I’m goin’ back there. I think Harold Reeves still lives in Marianna. ”

“What could you and Harold do? Don’t be dumb. We’ve talked about this before. It’s been too long. Too damn many years. That storm is way behind us. The statute of limitations has long passed. Nobody gave a damn then. Nothin’s changed. Give it up, Jesse. It’s not worth it. Not now. Not anymore.”

“If anything happens to me. I want you to know that Winchester 71 you always liked is yours. Gotta go, Hank.” Jesse disconnected, stood from the table and walked to a locked gun case in the corner of a small living room. He unlocked the case, removing a pump 12-gauge shotgun and a Colt .45 pistol. He set the firearms on the kitchen table, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply, blowing smoke out of his nostrils. He picked up the newspaper, staring at the obituary notice and said, “Maybe after I’m finished you can rest in peace, brother.”

Jesse stared out the kitchen window, the skinny dog leaving the spilled garbage and loping through the trailer park, ground muddy from last night’s hard rain, the call of a large crow coming from the top of the cottonwood tree.

THREE

I
saw Max’s radar go off. She stood on her hind legs in
St. Michaels’
cockpit, front paws bracing against a deck chair, her ears raised as high as dachshund ears can be lifted. She growled, the fur down her long spine bristling. I looked in the direction she stared, her posture like an African meerkat watching a lion approach.

Ol’ Joe, a hefty tawny cat with more orange than black fur, strolled down the middle of L dock as if he owned the marina. He’d been here as long as most of the boat owners could remember. He was a cat that belonged to no one in particular, but most everyone in the live-aboard community would leave food for Ol’ Joe. Nick was his favorite host.

Nick held a bottle of beer in one hand, using a spatula in the other hand to turn the fish on the hot grill. Popeye like, he closed one eye, the smoke from the coals swirling around him. He glanced over to Max. “I see what’s got your panties in a wad, hot dog. Don’t mess with Ol’ Joe. That cat’s got scars older than you.” Nick reached in the cooler and lifted a grouper from the chipped ice. In a blur, he filleted the fish, tossing the fillets on the grill and throwing the fish head up to the dock where the cat approached.

A large brown pelican swooped down, landing on the dock less than six feet from the fish head. And now Ol’ Joe was on one side, the pelican on the other, the fish head in the middle. It was more than Max could handle. She paced and barked. The pelican charged for the food, the cat leaping in and sinking its teeth into the fish, old scars across the cat’s face resembling seared
battle wounds. The pelican backed away, wings half extended. Ol’ Joe casually picked up his prize, lifted his head, turned around, and sauntered back down the dock.

He swaggered right by Dave Collins, who was heading our way with a Styrofoam coffee cup, newspaper and a tablet. Dave, mid-sixties, broad-shoulders, neatly trimmed gray beard, white hair, wore a tropical print shirt, shorts and flip-flops. Coming closer to
St. Michaels
he said, “Foul verses fur and fang. No contest. My money’s on Joe every time. But I’m not sure he has much fang left, but he’s never lost his chutzpa.” Dave grinned and sipped his coffee.

Nick wiped his hands on a paper towel. “Ever notice how the gulls go away when Ol’ Joe’s on deck? When Joe was younger, I’d give him a fish. Next mornin’ he’d bring me a rat. Tit for tat or rat, I figured. I’m making super grouper subs. Come aboard.”

“Twist my arm.” Dave walked down the short secondary dock next to
St. Michael
and stepped over and onto the cockpit, taking a seat in a canvas deck chair. Max followed him, wagging her tail. “How’s my favorite doxie?” Dave lifted her to his lap.

After retiring from a life-long career as an intelligence officer, and a twenty-five year marriage that crumbled, Dave spent most of his time living aboard
Gibraltar
, a 42-foot trawler moored across the dock from Nick’s boat. Dave’s analytical mind was always churning through the domino effect of current political events and their human and economic consequences. He was a fierce chess player, blogger, and he averaged reading three books a week, mostly nonfiction. I never knew him to forego a cocktail when the sun began to set in the harbor and Halifax River west of Ponce Marina.

Nick opened a Heineken and set it on a small metal table in front of Dave. “Ah, such service, Nicky. And I didn’t even have to ask.”

“Thought I’d give you somethin’ to sip on ‘cause I know my man, Sean, is gonna tell you about the letter he got in the mail from a dead man.”

Dave inhaled deeply, sipped his beer and said, “You know, I was just assuming Sean was here because it’s the first of the month. He’s probably paying his slip rent, and just maybe he and little Maxine would spend some time aboard
Jupiter
. Sean, you’ve become Thoreau, and that cabin on the river is your Walden Pond.”

I smiled and took a seat across the table from Dave, setting the letter on the tabletop. “I just rescreened the back porch. And now that I’m here at the marina, I was going to replace some of the isinglass on
Jupiter
.”

“Was? What’s preventing it?”

“Nothing, at least not yet.” I motioned toward the letter on the table. “A few months ago, a guy by the name of Curtis Garwood chartered my boat. Nick and I took him out in the reefs for a day. He caught fish. But he did something at the time that none of my other customers ever did?”

“What’s that?”

“Catch and release. Didn’t matter what he caught, we’d get the fish to the boat, and he asked Nick to release them.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, that about drove me nuts. Snapper, wahoo, trout…he’d send ‘em all back to Poseidon. For me, a Greek fisherman, it was almost sacrilegious.” Nick touched the small gold cross hanging from his neck.

Dave watched the condensation sweat from his bottle and asked, “So, I gather the letter on the table is from this guy who paid big bucks to catch fish, but not boat them. And, based on Nick’s introduction, I deduce this guy’s dead. Now, I’m damn curious. What’s in the letter?”

“A job offer.”

“A dead man offered you employment?”

“Not on-going work. If I take it, this would be for one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“To solve a cold case—a murder.”

“How cold?”

“More than fifty years.”

Dave glanced over to a 40-foot Sea Ray moving slowly across the marina waters. “Why’d he pick you?”

“He gives his reasons in the letter.”

Nick fixed three po-boy sandwiches filled with hot grouper, feta cheese, red onion, olive oil and peppers—all served on paper plates. He joined us at the table, a fresh beer in his hand. “Let’s eat.”

I gave the letter to Dave. He put on his bifocals and read silently. The sound of chuckling gulls passing over the marina and the gurgle of a diesel cranking from a Hatteras leaving M dock were the only noises filling the air. Dave pushed back from the table, looked over his bifocals to me. “Curtis writes that he believes one of them is still alive, but he didn’t leave you with his name.”

“That information might be in the separate package he sent to the post office box.”

Dave took a large bite from his sandwich. He chewed slowly, his face pensive. He opened his tablet and said, “I went through Marianna, Florida, three or four years ago. Didn’t see the reform school Curtis mentions, but I did see a way of life that hasn’t changed much in decades.” He hit a few keys on the table, reading in silence and then clearing his throat. “Jackson
County is about as Dixie as you can get. It’s the only county in Florida that borders both Alabama and Georgia. The last black man publically lynched in America was hung by a rope from an oak next to the Jackson County Courthouse, and they hung him after they’d beaten him to death.”

Nick sipped from his beer. “What the hell did he do to deserve that?”

“Allegedly raped and killed a woman.”

“Allegedly?” Nick used a toothpick to stab a piece of feta cheese on his plate.

“He never lived long enough to be tried for the crime. That happened in 1934. The Florida School for Boys was in business thirty-three years before the last public hanging in America. Sounds like the local demographics probably made for a rather shallow employee pool. That reform school operated one hundred and eleven years. The state closed it in 2011, ostensibly for budgetary reasons. This came after reports of child abuse through the years and a lawsuit filed by some men held there as children. A judge tossed it out because the accusations were far beyond the statute of limitations. And the state attorney said there wasn’t enough evidence to prove or disprove the allegations of child abuse.” Dave shook his head. “And more recently, Curtis writes that the police weren’t too interested in a cold case, this one the murder of a child.”