by Tom Lowe
“With his wealth, it might not be hard to find someone. The difficult part would be to orchestrate it from inside a maximum-security prison with all of his communications monitored.” She fed Max a sliver of tuna on a potato chip and looked up at a small plane pulling an advertising banner over the beach. It read: $2 Beers – Tiki Bar 5:00 – 7:00. Wynona leaned forward. Her eyes now intense. “They need to get the FBI involved. The hitman will probably be solicited from out of state. The man whose wealth, power, and greed, led to the death of our unborn child should be in prison the rest of his sick life. What needs to be made very clear is this—if anything happens to you, he will be charged with murder and face the death penalty here in a state that knows how to use it.” She pushed her plate to one side, the uneaten half of the sandwich remaining.
I reached over and took her hand. “We’ll beat it, Wynona. I promise you.”
She lowered her eyes and seemed to focus on a tiny white scar across the knuckle of her index finger. “That’s the second promise you’ve made to me in the last few days. The one I care about the most is the assurance that you’ll be here. And, when degenerates like Timothy Spencer threaten that condition, I become defensive. So much, in fact, I might pay Spencer a visit in prison and leave him with something more than a threat. It will be my own promise … just to him. That, if he messes with a hair on your head, I will use every resource I have to make his numbered days literally hell on Earth.”
I squeezed her hand. “I deeply appreciate your response to this, but I doubt it’ll come to that. In the interim, as they try to clamp down hard on Spencer, let’s do what we always do … keep vigilant. On Dave’s boat, you mentioned your spidey sense. Now’s the time to really use it. At least until we can set sail.”
Wynona took a deep breath, her eyes even more troubled. “You told me that Ron Hamilton called. You didn’t say when. How long have you known about this threat on your life?”
“Threats like this aren’t new to me. Unfortunately, they come with the job.”
“How long have you known?”
“More than a week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you knew?”
“Because, right now, it’s only a threat, and I didn’t want to add any more stress than what you’re still working through to this day. Recently, you’ve gone through much more than most people could ever handle. You almost lost your life. We lost our child. If this threat, and that’s all it is now, had been imminent … that’s one thing. But it wasn’t and isn’t. What it boils down to is a vengeful guy in prison who blames me for his bad decisions in life. I’ve had at least a dozen criminals swear revenge at me, some as the bailiffs were escorting them out, screaming and threatening me from the courtroom.”
“But how many have the money that Timothy Spencer has? That kind of wealth can buy expensive expertise. You should have told me as soon as Hamilton told you.”
“You’re right … I should have, but I didn’t. I’m telling you now. We’ll work through it together.”
Wynona stood and picked up Max. “We’re going for a walk. I need to think.”
SIXTY-SIX
An hour later, as Wynona was returning to Dragonfly, walking with Max down L dock, she ran into Dave. He said, “Two of my favorite ladies out for an evening stroll, I assume?”
“It was more like a long walk. Some quality girl time. Max is such a darn good listener.”
“Indeed, she is. I think that’s one of the reason’s Nick likes her so much. He can talk and talk, Max never interrupting, acting like everything he says is the Greek gospel. He thinks Max is the only woman who will listen to his ramblings and still love him anyway.”
Wynona smiled and let out a deep breath.
Dave said, “It looks like something is weighing heavy on your mind. Care to share? I may not have Max’s fine-tuned listening skills, but I’ll make an effort.”
Wynona folded her arms. “I don’t want to get into specifics, but Sean held back something that I think was important for me to know.”
“Held back, meaning he didn’t lie to you but, instead, didn’t volunteer information?”
“Yes, but it was something I feel he should have shared. Dave, his life is threatened, and he didn’t want me to know because he was concerned about adding stress to my recovery from the shooting and the loss of our child. I didn’t graduate top of my class at Quantico and spend eight years in high-stress work as an FBI special agent if I couldn’t handle pressure. I just don’t want Sean to treat me like I’m fragile and could break or break down under tension and strain. I won’t. That’s not who I am.”
Dave looked up at the star-filled night sky for a moment. “Wynona, I think it’s because of Sean’s love for you … what you’ve suffered through, which has been a lot. He simply wants to protect you. He didn’t lie or wasn’t deceptive for reasons important to him. The prime reason is you … wanting to give you time to heal. Because he chose not to mention something doesn’t mean he wasn’t going to tell you. He may have wanted to pick the right time to do so.”
“From his point of view, that might be kind and compassionate; and I love him dearly for his kindness and care. But, from my perspective, I find it disrespectful. With my background, if there really is a threat on his life, two sets of eyes are better than one. And I have the training to offer a good, second set of eyes.”
“No doubt. Your value, in his mind, is never diminished. When I watch Sean with you, I can see a changed man. Not since Sherri has another woman touched his heart like you have. He’s always been elusive or somewhat guarded in relationships with women since her death. But with you, it’s very different. He would walk through fire for you. And he’d succeed.”
“I’d never ask him to.”
“You wouldn’t have to. He’d just do it. In my former line of work, I’ve met a lot of men and women who were exceptional in covert and police work. None, though, quite like Sean. For him, a rare form of self-sacrifice is innate, somehow part of his DNA. There’s no moral button to press to ignite it. It’s simply the way he’s hardwired. His powers of observation and deductive reasoning can’t be taught in Quantico, Langley, or anywhere else but on the mean streets. His tolerance for pain is off the charts as is his love for you. So, since both of you are dear friends, and for me trying to forget the fact that you resemble my daughter, I say to you as I would say to her if the circumstances were similar … love him for who he is and what he does.”
“I want him to love me the same way—for who I am.”
“I can assure you, Wynona, he’s doing it for the most unselfish and right reasons. Just keep talking to him and give him time to see things from your perspective as you’re trying to from his.”
Wynona nodded. She extended her arms and hugged Dave, Max at their feet, the reflection of the starry night mixing with the twinkling boat lights off the marina water.
SIXTY-SEVEN
When Wynona and Max returned to Dragonfly, I could see a change in her face. Although her eyes were reddened, she smiled warmly, bit her bottom lip and reached for me. We stood in the boat’s salon, holding each other, Max jumping up on the couch, curling into a ball near a pillow Wynona had bought with the image of a long dachshund embroidered on it.
Wynona looked up at me. “Hey, sailor, where can a girl get a glass of wine on this sailboat?”
“I know the place.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely.” I dimmed Dragonfly’s interior lights, lit two candles, turned and walked to the liquor cabinet. The wine rack was built right below it. I had bought two cases of wine, mostly reds—the ones that we both enjoyed the most. I pulled the cork on a six-year-old cabernet from Napa Valley, poured some in two wine glasses, handing one to her. I looked her in the eye and asked, “Is there anything you’d like to drink to? A toast before we set sail?”
“Yes. I’d like to drink to us … to make a toast to who we are as a couple, how we got here, and where we’re going together.” Wynona
glanced over at Max and back to Sean. And I’d like to toast to … no secrets, and to the three of us as a family.”
I nodded.
She raised her glass. We clinked glasses and sipped the wine. “This is so good.”
“I know what will make it even better.”
“What would that be?” She smiled.
“Some music.” I walked over to the music controls on a console near the navigation station, pressing the buttons to a digital playlist. I had mounted four wireless speakers, tucked away discreetly, in Dragonfly’s salon. Within three seconds, the music was playing. The song was Such a Simple Thing by Ray LaMontagne. We sipped the wine. I set my glass down on the table, reached for Wynona’s glass and set it next to mine. And then I reached for her.
We slowly danced in Dragonfly’s salon, swaying with the music, the words fitting the mood and occasion. In a raspy timbre, LaMontagne singing, ‘Tell me what you’re feeling … I can take the pain. Tell me that you mean it … that you won’t leave again. Tell me what your heart wants … such a simple thing. My heart is like paper … yours is like a flame …’
I held Wynona closer, the sweet scent of lavender soap coming from her neck, her breathing soft, her hand small clutched in mine. I lowered my head, and we kissed. The taste of wine on her warm lips, Wynona’s mouth parting, passionate. We continued dancing, candlelight flickering across the salon. Through the port windows, boat lights shimmered off the dark water, a shrimp boat entering the far side of the marina.
As the song continued, I kissed Wynona again. She looked up at me. “Thank you, Sean.”
“You’re welcome, but thanks for what?”
“For being the man that you are.”
I smiled. “Warts and all?”
“No warts. Lots or scars, but no warts. I consider the visible scars your little badges of honor, the telltale remnants of a life lived to the fullest.” She unbuttoned part of my shirt, tracing one finger across my chest, touching a beaded scar. “By saying to the fullest, I don’t mean barfights. I’m talking about righting wrongs, trying to make a positive difference. It seems like a rare breed today. Tell me, Sean … where have all the good cowboys gone?”
“I like to think it’s not the last roundup, and they’ll be back.”
We turned in a slow circle, dancing to the rhythm of the music. She said, “From this point forward, let’s promise each other no secrets, regardless of the noble reason created by whatever source that spawned it.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“One of the things I so admire and love about you is your integrity. I know its non-negotiable, especially when it comes to the welfare of others. It was that way with your brothers in the military, the way it was with the families of victims in the crimes you’ve investigated, and the way it is with me.”
The song wound down with the lyrics, ‘Tell me what your heart wants … such a simple thing. My heart is like paper … yours is like a flame.’
I looked at Wynona and said, “I believe one of the worst sins is lying to yourself. When you try to deceive yourself to justify a decision to knowingly make a wrong turn in life, who are you really cheating? When you take a direction that your heart knows is utterly dishonest, and when you do it simply to conform to someone or something you don’t believe in … you fail two of the greatest friends you never really knew. And they are yourself and the divine force that breathed life into your soul.”
“Can I add a third friend?”
“Of course. Who’s that?”
“In my case it’s you. And, in your case, I hope it’s me and always will be.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Spencer. I know you felt disrespected, and I didn’t mean it that way. And I know that you, like me, have the need to protect … and that you’re also highly trained in that area.”
Wynona’s eyes misted. “Thank you, Sean.”
I picked up our wine glasses and handed Wynona her glass. “Earlier you made a toast to us. Who we are as a couple … how we got here, and where we’re going together … the together part is our key. To us and to never intentionally failing us.” We touched glasses and sipped the wine.
The music changed to Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron. We set our wine glasses on the table, Max still sleeping on the couch. I took Wynona’s hand and led her to the master cabin. We undressed in the subdued light from the moon and stars coming through the port and starboard windows. For the next hour, it was just us—making love on a sailboat tethered to the docks. Soon we’d sever our ties to land and would be on the open seas. We’d make love anchored in secluded coves, remembering the toasts we drank to tonight and the promises of tomorrow.
SIXTY-EIGHT
The following day, Detective Grant sat at his desk in the homicide division looking for a killer. He scrutinized the roster of names. He had organized the names of the cast and crew working on Atlantis into three categories. The first included people who lived in Florida—a list of those hired as freelance crew or extras.
The second category was the group the production team labeled “above the line,” meaning well-paid actors, executive producers, producers, the director, and all of the first and second assistant directors. From that batch, Grant singled out a few of them, including two people hired to work with the extras who had speaking roles. The “below the line” roster included all cast and crew who resided outside of Florida.
Grant ran background checks on each person listed in the category of Florida residents, using extra analysis, looking for people who had criminal records, especially a history of physical abuse. He was told the production studio had conducted brief arrest record checks on each person they hired. Grant was impressed because he had yet to find one person with a criminal arrest background, including the two people working as dialogue coaches.
Grant broke the list of Florida residents down to locations—where each person lived and whether they lived near a pond or a lake. Out of the eighty-seven names on the inventory, most had provided the physical addresses for their homes. Three had given post office boxes for addresses. Grant and his partner took the time to use satellite photos to closely examine where each home was located in proximity to a lake or pond. They gave preference to those bodies of water that were remote, offering a killer relative privacy as he drowned his victims.
The closest they could find was a home directly on Kingsley Lake in the north-central area of Florida, not far from the small town of Starke. The freelance employee of the studio was Brandon Fisher, hired as a production assistant. Grant dug deeper into his background. Fisher, age thirty-nine, held numerous jobs after he was dishonorably discharged from the Navy where he had hoped to enter the Seal program. He had washed out after initiating fights, including three citations for disorderly conduct, under the influence of alcohol. Since leaving the service, Fisher had worked as an underwater welder and a marine diver. He occasionally was hired to dive using SCUBA gear to clean and scrape barnacles from the hulls of boats.
Grant looked at the images of Kingsley Lake. It was almost a perfect circle. He closely examined the shoreline, the topography, and the proximity of Fisher’s house to the water. The home was near an area known as Camp Blanding, a training site for the Florida National Guard. Using high-resolution, satellite images, Grant studied the wooded area that the training camp encompassed. There was a possibility that someone could trespass on the property and drown victims on the isolated shoreline. However, because the waterfront was not developed, it didn’t mean the property was secluded. Since the large lake was shaped like a perfectly round circle, dozens of residents across the lake could see the shore area of Camp Blanding.
Unless the killings were done at night, Grant thought.
He picked up his desk phone and called the lab. One of the senior forensic techs, Supervisor Celeste Thompson answered, and Grant asked, “Celeste, how quickly could you get a team member to drive up to a lake near Starke, Florida, and test the water for diatoms?”
“Wha
t lake are you talking about?”
“Lake Kingsley. From the high-altitude photos, it looks like it was formed after a meteor struck Earth a million years ago. The damn lake is as round as a doughnut. The area I’d like for the techs to test is the water along the eastern shore next to Camp Blanding. It’s a National Guard training area. Probably only used one weekend a month. We need this done stat.”
“I can get Zack to run up there today. You think this round lake could be the one?”
“Maybe. Can you move the DNA testing of Brandon Fisher to the top of the list?”
“Of course. Am I to assume that Fisher lives near Lake Kingsley?”
“You can’t get much closer than waterfront. I looked at the county tax records. The house was built in 1970, owned by Fisher’s parents until they passed away. All he has to do is maintain it and pay the taxes. The house isn’t far from the National Guard camp and all the woods surrounding the camp.”
“Okay, I’ll get Zack heading out to Lake Kingsley now. Under the surface of that lake, we might find a match.”
SIXTY-NINE
Rex Nelson was tying a bowline to his boat at the marina when Savannah called. “Hey, kiddo, how’d it go over there at Weeki Wachee?”
“I got the job! Dad, I’m so happy.” Savannah held the phone to her ear, walking to her car in the parking area, tourists getting out of a chartered bus that parked under the shade of a live oak near the lot.
“That’s great. You’re on a roll! Not long after you finished up your part in a major movie, you land a job at Weeki Wachee. Is it what you wanted, part-time?”
“Yes. I think it was because I had the part in Atlantis that helped me get the job. My supervisor is so nice. Her name’s Dora Sweeny. She wanted to know all about how they filmed the mermaid scenes in Atlantis. She worked at Weeki Wacheee as a mermaid like twenty years ago. I’ll be performing three days a week. Saturday, Sunday, and half a day on Wednesday. It’ll fit really good with my schedule at school.”
