Everyone laughed and applauded Kurtis Laurance as his aides hustled him toward the rear door. While the rest of the crowd hurried in the other direction to find their seats for his speech, I made my way toward Laurance’s retreating figure.
Laurance and his entourage moved along a narrow corridor. I called out to him, “Mr. Laurance.”
They all stopped, turning toward me. “I wonder if I could have a minute of your time.”
My face had mostly healed, but there were still a few faint bruises around my eyes. I must have looked suspicious because several of his aides immediately moved in front of Laurance, shielding him from any potential trouble. A Florida Highway Patrolman stepped forward to block my approach.
“No, it’s okay,” Laurance said. “Mr. Mitchell and I are old friends.”
He broke away from the others and strode rapidly toward me, a swagger in his step. If anything, he appeared even more confident than the man I met four weeks ago. All the polls showed an overwhelming victory for his ticket, and he wore the mantle of success as an invisible cloak. “You’re looking good, Quint.” He extended a hand, but I ignored it.
“I heard about what happened with you and Erin. Terrible. Just terrible.”
“Looks like nothing can stop the Laurance bandwagon now.”
“That’s up to the voters,” he said, looking at his watch. “I really have to go. I’m already a half-hour behind schedule.”
“I know you sent Tallabois after me.”
“Ridiculous. Lem was a loose cannon. You said it yourself. Heaven knows I couldn’t control him. That’s why I offered you his job. Whatever he did, he did entirely on his own. And the truth is the police don’t have any proof he did anything, except get himself killed by that maniac.” He turned to wave at an aide waiting impatiently at the end of the hall, tapping on his watch.
“I’m sorry you got caught up in the middle of this, Quint, but I had nothing to with it.”
“I guess you didn’t have anything to do with Walter Howard having his knees smashed either.”
Laurance edged closer, bending toward me. Lowering his voice to almost a whisper, he said, “For God’s sake, Mitchell, I was a kid. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what happened back then. But people change. I was twelve years old. People change,” he repeated.
People do change, but my few encounters with the man told me that for all his success, despite his charisma and beneath the smooth veneer, Laurance was a manipulative and ruthless bully who’d do almost anything to get his way. Perhaps the voters believed those were strong leadership traits, but I wasn’t convinced.
“What do you think the voters would say if they knew you played a part in crippling a civil rights leader?”
Laurance seemed taken aback and regarded me through wide eyes as though I’d suddenly popped into the corridor in a cloud of smoke from another dimension. He straightened, slipping back into the confident pose of the CEO of the St. Johns Group and Florida’s next governor.
“Hell, Mitchell, this is Florida. If that gets out, it might even bump my numbers up a few percentage points.”
With that, he turned his back on me and walked away.
EPILOGUE
The moon perched above the cluster of low buildings forming St. Augustine’s horizon. Down below, the tiny San Sebastian River, no more than a tributary of the Matanzas River, flared with amber highlights. I couldn’t help thinking about how the landscape would soon change, drastically altered by the condos and hotel of the Matanzas Bay development going up across the street. St. Augustine, with its bloody yet proud past, seemed to be one of those places where change was a reluctant visitor. Yet the town was changing despite itself.
Serena and I sat on the roof of the San Sebastian Winery, sipping a glass of their Castillo Red. A local blues band had completed a rowdy set, and we were enjoying the stillness of the night.
“Here’s to a positively lovely evening,” Serena said, holding her glass toward the full moon, and then to me.
We tapped glasses and sipped. Around us, clusters of locals and tourists were talking and celebrating their own personal victories. Five weeks had passed since my battle with Jarrod Watts, and all of the purple bruises, headaches and bloodshot eyes had finally disappeared. Serena agreed with me that this was worth celebrating.
“Any time of the day or night is lovely if you’re around,” I said with a straight face.
Serena laughed, but seemed to appreciate the compliment. “Maybe you should get hit in the head more often,” she said. “You’re turning into Mr. Sensitivity.”
“Let’s keep that between us. Okay? I don’t think it’d be good for my business.”
Streams of moonlight reflected across the rooftop, and Serena’s face glowed with an inner radiance. She reached out and ran her fingers over my cheek. “Good to have the old Quint back.”
“Good to be back.”
She smiled, but I saw apprehension in her eyes. “You aren’t giving this up, are you? Next time you might not be so lucky.”
“Hey, I’m fine. Nothing that a few more nights with you won’t clear up.” I brought her hand to my mouth and nibbled at her fingertips.
“You’re impossible,” she scolded, pulling her hand back, “and you’re trying to change the subject.”
“Listen to me, baby. My profession doesn’t even make the top ten most dangerous jobs list. Commercial fishermen and lumberjacks are far more likely to have a serious accident than private investigators.”
Her expression said, you’re full of beans.
“Hey, it’s true. My job is usually boring and no more dangerous than yours.” I pointed at my face. “Believe me, this private eye is done with murder cases. I’m only chasing after old women with walkers from now on.”
I’m not sure she bought it, but some of the tension slipped from her face. “I just don’t want to worry about you all the time.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be here to take it one day at a time, if that’s the way you want it.”
She squeezed my hand, and we sat in the glow of a citrine-colored moon while we finished our wine. I caught our server’s eye and asked for the check.
“While you take care of that, I’m going to the little girl’s room. I had a wonderful time tonight. Thanks.”
“The night doesn’t have to end here. There are a couple of four-legged creatures in Jacksonville Beach jumping at the chance to deposit hair on your dress.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, and walked toward the rest rooms.
While I waited for the check, I studied the moon and thought about the twists and turns my life had taken since I uncovered William Marrano’s body. I’d settled back into my old routines at Mitchell Investigative Services, tracking down skip traces and uncovering insurance scams. The publicity from the Watts case even helped me land the Gulf Breeze Insurance account.
Everything had worked out for Kurtis Laurance, too. The news hounds were describing his overwhelming primary victory in terms usually saved for Nobel Prize Laureates and rock stars. Laurance still had to win the general election in November, but the pundits were already speculating on his upcoming administration, comparing him to other southern governors who made the leap to the White House.
I thought about Erin Marrano and her part in Henderson’s, and perhaps her husband’s, death. Maybe I should have pursued it more vigorously, but like she told me, I had no real evidence. Only my paranoid theories. I considered going to Buck Marrano with my suspicions, but in the end decided against it. There was no way the state attorney or a grand jury would bring charges against William Marrano’s widow. Not on my gut feelings.
Hundreds of years from now, these mysteries will still be waiting for an archaeologist’s spade, but what interested me at the moment was the more immediate future. I couldn’t change the past, but tonight, for some reason, the future seemed alive with possibility.
I checked to see if Serena was on her way back to the table before pulli
ng my cell phone from my pocket. I stared at it as though sensing it held the answer to a great enigma. I hadn’t heard from Samuel Parks since that afternoon I exploded and told him to find another therapist. His daughter’s tragic death would always lie heavy upon both of us, but I hoped he found a way to achieve some peace.
Without thinking, my hand reached up to the medallion hanging around my neck. I had retrieved it from Watts’ dead fingers and it now hung from a new silver chain. My finger slipped between the top two buttons of my shirt, and I felt the smooth figure of the dolphin. In the past, touching the cold metal was a way to connect with my brother and reinforce the guilt I carried with me as a constant reminder of my failure. Now, as I touched the hammered stainless steel, I pictured the acrobatic leaps and smiling snout of a living creature.
My past had become part of my internal structure as much as the blood pumping through my body. But on this night, I felt the past had controlled me for too long. It couldn’t be changed, but perhaps the future might. Taking a deep breath, I flipped open my cell and pulled the old numbers out of my head. I punched them carefully into the phone and hesitated a moment, my finger shaking slightly, before pressing the green Send button.
The ring caught me by surprise, and I almost changed my mind. I listened as it rang again, wondering what I’d say. With any luck, no one would be home. The voice on the other end startled me. It had been so long. Finally, I said, “Hello dad, it’s me. It’s Quint.”
The End
Author’s Note
While Matanzas Bay is a work of fiction, it should be noted that St. Augustine played a major role in the Civil Rights Movement. Throughout 1963-1964, blacks picketed segregated establishments, conducted sit-ins, and marches. Dr. Robert B. Hayling, a local dentist and Air Force veteran who led the movement, was viciously beaten by the Klan during this period. This was the genesis of Walter Howard’s story.
Carl Halbirt has been the City Archaeologist of St. Augustine since 1988. Working with a cadre of volunteers he’s helped to recruit and train through the St. Augustine Archaeological Association, Mr. Halbirt has salvaged and preserved remnants of the old city’s storied past. I’m grateful to him for allowing me to observe one of his surveys, and for the important work he’s doing.
Thanks also to my friend Kay Day for contributing “Clayton Henderson’s” poem, A Flash of Silence, which added greatly to the story.
Readers familiar with St. Augustine will recognize the various landmarks mentioned in the book. The St. Augustine Lighthouse and Alligator Farm, for example, are popular destinations for visitors and, to my knowledge, no acts of violence have taken place there. Other places depicted in the story, like the Stuff of Dreams restaurant, are fictional. Everything else is true, except the parts I made up.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the next Quint Mitchell Mystery, Bring Down the Furies.
Quint Mitchell is on the move again. The private investigator tracks the “Heart Throb Bandit” to the tiny hamlet of Allendale, South Carolina on behalf of a client. In another time, Allendale felt the wrath of General Sherman’s troops as they blazed a fiery path through Georgia and Carolina during the Civil War.
There’s another conflagration brewing today fueled by a serial arsonist and an ugly confrontation between an ultra-conservative minister and the scientist responsible for a renowned archaeological survey known as the Topper Site, which has uncovered proof of the oldest humans ever found in North America.
Mitchell is pulled into the growing violence, working with the sheriff’s department to calm the growing storm as a media frenzy leads to massive demonstrations, and arson turns to murder. Caught in the middle, Mitchell becomes a target for the arsonist, and must save himself while helping to save the town from being destroyed for the second time.
Enjoy this advance look at Bring Down the Furies
BRING DOWN THE FURIES
by Parker Francis
PROLOGUE
Flames flickered, then flared brightly. Within minutes, the fire was visible throughout the interior of the handsome plantation. The moon had slipped behind a bank of black clouds as if unable to face the inevitable destruction, but the growing inferno illuminated the night with a devilish hue.
Glaughtner’s men had already foraged through the deserted mansion, dumping foodstuffs left behind by the fleeing residents of the stately home into an abandoned wagon they’d found in the barn. Hams and sweet potatoes were piled along with greens, preserves, oil paintings, and bottles of wine. He felt sure the wine wouldn’t survive the forty-mile journey back to camp.
He watched his men cheer as the fire sizzled and popped its way into the entry hall and dining room beyond. Rippling shadows sidled over the yard. Flames blossomed, sending out torrents of heat. Glaughtner’s face flushed, but he welcomed the heat. The night had grown increasingly frigid, a light rain only adding to their misery.
He stood mesmerized, watching the flames consume curtains and furniture, the smoke billowing through broken windows. Something exploded inside the house, sending fragments flying in all directions. Glaughtner stepped back several paces, unwilling or unable to turn his back on the conflagration. Not yet. Not before the first flames broke through the roof of the three-storied mansion.
When it finally did, the small band of men cheered even louder. Some of them singing and dancing their little jigs. Bottles of wine were passed from hand to hand. It didn’t take them long to break into the spoils, he thought, but they had earned their rewards.
The wind shifted direction once again. Sparks and soot and pieces of burning debris flew through the night air. The acrid stench of smoke assaulted his senses. A nearby pine tree suddenly burst into flames, adding to the unholy spectacle.
Glaughtner remained fixed on what he’d created, his eyes glowing red in the reflected light of the fire. “Oh, lord,” he murmured to himself. “Forgive me. I do love it so.” A rush of pleasure shot tendrils of heat through his body, warming his limbs, his very loins.
“Captain, the men are going to drink themselves to sleep if we don’t move on.”
The speaker was a sergeant from Pennsylvania.
“You’re right, sergeant. I think we’ve done more than enough damage here,” Glaughtner said.
The sergeant nodded in agreement. “These Carolina bastards won’t forget us for a long time, that’s for sure. We left our mark on them.”
Glaughtner gazed one last time at the flames devouring the house before turning away. “Gather the men and let’s ride,” he told the sergeant. “I think Uncle Billy will be proud of our work here tonight.”
CHAPTER ONE
Allendale, SC – Day One
The pass flew over the receiver’s outstretched hands, hit the defender in the back of the head, and bounced crazily away.
“You dummy,” one of the players screamed at the defender. “That could have been an interception. How many times do I have to tell you to turn around and find the ball?”
The defender, a boy of no more than twelve years old, grinned and flipped his teammate off before retreating to his position behind the defensive line.
The offensive team huddled up, listening intently to the quarterback who punctuated his play calling with hand gestures toward the opposing team. As I watched the play unfold, I kept an eye on the motel across the street, watching for the familiar white Cadillac and the man I’d trailed to Allendale.
“Hup one. Hup two. Hike,” the quarterback yelled.
I guessed he was one of the oldest players on the field, possibly thirteen or fourteen. He stepped back from the center, the ball in his left hand where he made a convincing pump fake to a freckle-faced boy streaking down the right sideline. When the defenders turned to look for the pass, he tucked the ball under his arm and squirted through the line. He feinted right, causing one defender to collide with his teammate. He cut to his left, broke an arm tackle and raced down the field to the makeshift end zone.
Watching the young quarterback brought bac
k memories of my high school glory days. The cheering crowd rocking the wooden stands. My teammates pounding me on the back. The rush of adrenaline and the feelings of triumph that engulfed my seventeen-year-old brain. I led my team to the state finals in my senior year, throwing for over 1,200 yards and running for eleven touchdowns. Of course, I was lucky to have a future Pro Bowler as a receiver, but like the young speedster, I always had a good set of wheels. Even in college, I was one of the fastest guys on my team, even though I ended up playing defensive back.
But you still have it, Mitchell, I thought to myself. And if DeAngelis decides to make a run for it, he doesn’t stand a chance. Because I’m still fast. Also because Ricardo DeAngelis is nearly sixty years old.
At that moment, the Cadillac pulled into the motel parking lot. I turned back to the field where the celebration was still in progress, clapping my hands like a proud parent, one eye watching the Caddy.
From my position on the far side of the field, I had a direct view of the front of the Allendale Budget Lodge. The motel looked like it may have been built in the fifties or sixties. A faded pole sign advertised AIR CONDITIONING – TV IN EVERY ROOM. A single row of eighteen rooms faced South Main and the field across the street. The Caddy had parked at the far end in front of number eighteen.
I watched the car door open. A tall man unfolded himself from the vehicle. Ricardo DeAngelis, who preferred to be called Ricky, stood six-foot-four-and-a-half. He was lean and in very good shape for his age. I couldn’t see his green eyes from where I stood, but most of the women he’d bilked described them as glowing with an inner light. That sounded like romantic bullshit to me, but something must have blinded them to the man’s devious intentions. The media had crowned DeAngelis the Heart Throb Bandit, and he’d made a career out of separating lonely rich women from their bank accounts. I’d been hired to find him.
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