Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers))

by Lowe, Tom

  An acorn fell from the oak, bouncing off the wooden bench to within inches of her shoe. She watched a squirrel coming closer to her, the squirrel's eyes on the prize. Courtney leaned over to pick up the acorn. It was hidden in a patch of grass that had somehow missed the mower's blades. Next to the acorn grew a tall, perfect clover in the speckled sunlight through the branches. She picked the clover and held it in front of her, rotating the four leaves in her hand.

  Maybe this is a good sign. She touched each of the leaves and remembered a conversation she’d had with her grandmother about the Irish shamrock. Courtney would continue. She had no choice. She smiled, reached for the acorn and said, “Come here little fella.” She gently tossed it to the squirrel, the animal scampering like an outfielder chasing a groundball. The squirrel sat back on its haunches, looking directly at her and gnawed the heart out of the nut, its cheeks puffing out.

  Courtney Burke smiled, glanced down at the four-leaf clover in her hand, and she no longer felt so alone.

  8

  Jupiter was home. She was docked, back in her stationary course less than eighty yards from the Tiki Bar in the small universe of Ponce Marina, slip L-17. Seeing my old boat at her place secured to the docks, floating on a rising tide, was like seeing an old friend back in the game of life. Max and I walked down the long pier, Jupiter near the end. The breeze across the harbor brought the smell of a receding tide, barnacles drying in the sun, mangrove roots, and grilled shrimp. Three brown pelicans flew just above the masts of the sailboats. The birds cut a sharp right and alighted near a fish-cleaning station as a charter boat arrived. Fresh meat.

  After watching the newsflash on the television hanging above the bar, I told Kim Davis that I'd seen the young woman, Courtney Burke, walking along Highway 314 last night. The girl refused my offer to drive her to town, or anywhere for that matter. But that's all I told Kim. No need to mention the two gents who tried to drag the girl into their pickup truck or what had happened after their attempt. I thought about the message Dave had left on my cell phone after recognizing my voice on the 911 call.

  Max stopped, ears rising, nostrils testing the breeze, her eyes like heat-seeking missiles locking on smoke drifting from the St. Michael. The boat was forty feet in length with a much longer lineage connected to ancient mariners who sailed the Sea of Galilee two-thousand years ago. St. Michael was designed with an Old World style bow that could take high waves. The wheelhouse looked like it was lifted from a small tugboat and plopped near the bow. The large, open transom was intended for commercial fishing, and its captain, Nick Cronus, was one of the best in the business.

  Nick stepped from the salon door, lifted the hood on his small grill perched in the center of his cockpit, and turned over a piece of fish. The smell of garlic, lemon, olive oil, and grilled fish filled the air. The smoke rose like a ghost beckoning Max. That's all it took. She barked once and darted down the dock toward St. Michael. Nick spun around, greeting her with a wide smile and open arms. “Hot Dog!” he bellowed. “Come see Uncle Nicky.” Max trotted to the boat; Nick, leaning over the side of St Michael, scooped her up in one hand and stepped to the grill, Max’s tail wagging in overdrive.

  Nick, born in Greece, made a living from the sea, and he looked it. Wide shoulders, forearms like hams, olive skin, thick moustache, black eyes that smiled, and a mop of dark, curly hair styled from sun, surf, and salt. We’d become close after I pulled two bikers off Nick late one night. They’d accused him of making a pass at one of their women, and they jumped him from behind in the parking lot after the Tiki Bar closed. They were using a tire iron on his wrists and knees, and were about to split his skull when I pulled up and caught them in my high beams. I’d stepped out of my Jeep, Glock extended. Show over. I’ll always remember Nick looking up at me through swollen eyes, teeth red with blood, broken jaw, a shattered wrist, and grinning wide. “There’s a special bond when a man saves another man's life,” he said later. “I got your back forever.”

  That was about three years ago. I stepped from the dock onto the cockpit of St. Michael and Nick said, “I’ll toss some more grouper on the grill. Wanna beer?”

  “Little early for me. Stopped at McDonalds for breakfast.”

  “Sean, you feed Max fast food and you'll clog her little arteries. That stuff's not chicken of the sea.” Nick used his fingers to break off a small piece of fish from the grill and hand-fed it to Max. “That's better, hot dog. No more chicken nuggets for you.”

  “Kim told me you helped Bobby and his crew put Jupiter back in the water. Thanks.”

  “No problem. New props looked good. Everything is jam up and jelly tight. After they lowered her from the sling, I just helped the boys dock her. Bilge is purring. Jupiter's lookin' damn sexy.” He took a long pull from a sweating can of Miller, his eyes animated, face hot. He gently lowered Max to the cockpit, looked over my shoulder, and said, “Here comes Dave. He had to go get a newspaper. Still likes reading them rather than using his tablet, phone, or computer. But he has to drive farther and farther to find a place that sells papers anymore.”

  Dave Collins, dressed in shorts, flip-flops, Hawaiian print shirt hanging loose, carried a large Styrofoam cup of coffee, a small brown bag, and a folded newspaper. For a man in his late sixties he stayed in good shape, wide chest, thick wrists, white hair, beard neatly trimmed. His ruddy face was lined from a career in covert intelligence, the creases intersected with laugh lines around his mouth. His penetrating blue eyes were filled with wisdom and humor. He smiled and said, “Smells good, Nick. Sean and little Maxine, welcome back.”

  Nick said, “Want some grouper? Gonna pile it into pita bread. Made a quart of my special sauce last night.”

  Dave held up the bag. “Éclairs. The French lady at the Inlet Bakery is a goddess.”

  Nick shook his head and glanced down at Max. “Pay no attention to Dave. Between him and Sean you'd go from hot dog to chunky monkey.”

  Dave smiled and sipped his coffee. He said, “Save some for me. Sean, did you get my message? That may not have been your voice on that 911 call I heard during the newscast, but if it's not, then it’s someone who sounds a lot like you.”

  Nick looked at Dave through the smoke from the grill. “What 911 call? Something happen, Sean?”

  I glanced across the marina and watched a fifty-two-foot Beneteau motor out into the Halifax River. Within seconds, the spinnaker was unfolding in the light breeze. I said, “Nothing really happened. I tried to prevent something from happening.”

  Dave held his hand up. “Whoa. This I have to hear. I'm coming aboard, claiming one of the canvas chairs, and will enjoy a fresh-baked éclair while listening.”

  Nick used a large two-prong fork to lift the fish from the grill, stuffed it inside pita bread with sliced onions, tomatoes, and chopped lettuce drenched in an olive oil concoction. He took a bite as Dave settled into the chair. Max cocked her head, waiting for a sliver of food to fall from Nick's sandwich.

  I said, “Dave, what you heard was me. I found a teenage girl walking on State Road 314 through the Ocala National Forest past midnight. I stopped to see if I could help her or give her a lift somewhere. That's when two good ol' boys decided to pull their truck in front of my Jeep, get out, and do some serious damage to me before forcing the girl into their truck.”

  “Oh, shit,” Nick said, food bulging under his left cheek. He glanced at my right hand. “Looks like you got a few bruised knuckles.”

  I told them what happened. They both listened without interruption, Nick chewing, speechless, his eyes filled with amazement, as if I said I'd stumbled upon an alien in the forest. Dave propped his feet on the transom and used a paper towel to wipe chocolate from his fingers.

  Max uttered a growl as Joe, a large cat with calico markings, strolled down the dock, head in the air, not giving Max a second thought. I said, “Be smart Max. You're outweighed by at least five pounds.”

  Nick grunted. “Sean, how in God's great universe does this stuff happen to yo
u? Forrest Gump was talkin' about guys like you when he said 'shit happens.' I wonder where the girl went. What the hell was she doing out there?”

  Dave cleared his throat. “This morning the lovely French baker said it better than Forrest Gump. When I asked her why she no longer sold my favorite buttery croissants, she said 'c'est la vie,' it is what it is, my inference was that more people bought the éclairs.” Dave glanced down at the newspaper in his lap. He said, “If the news is accurate, the girl Sean found walking in the woods is a little more than a typical runaway. She's a suspect, or at least a person of interest, in a murder.”

  “Murder?” Nick crushed the empty beer can with one hand. “What murder?”

  Dave said, “A carny worker was stabbed through the heart with an ice pick.”

  Nick sat in one of the deck chairs. He scratched Max behind the ears. “Sean, you think the girl did it?”

  “I don't know.”

  “What'd she tell you?”

  “Just what I told you and Dave. She was scared. A deer in the headlights. And then the guys in the truck showed up, half stoned, half drunk, and in full-bore rape mode.”

  I watched Dave look over my shoulder, his eyes following movement on the dock. Nick looked in the same direction. Dave said, “Sean, describe the girl. What'd she look like?”

  “About a hundred ten pounds, five-five maybe, shoulder-length dark hair, high cheekbones and eyes that drew you into them.”

  When I saw Nick shake his head and purse his lips, I didn't want to turn around. Dave shifted in his seat and said, “Can't see her eyes from here, but everything else you described is spot on.”

  I turned in my chair and saw Courtney Burke coming our way. Over my shoulder I heard Nick say, “I don’t care what your French baker said, Dave. When it comes to Sean, my man Forrest Gump said it best, shit happens.”

  9

  Courtney Burke was still wearing the same clothes she had on when I found her. She approached St. Michael with trepidation, her body language communicating before she spoke. She used her right hand to pull a strand of her hair behind one ear, licked her bottom lip, and looked back toward the marina for a second. She said, “You'd told me about your boat when we met, said you did work on it at this marina. The woman at the bar said I could find you here.”

  I nodded. “Hello, Courtney.” Max cocked her head and wagged her tail. “These are my friends, Dave Collins and Nick Cronus.”

  “Pleased to me you,” Dave said.

  Nick grinned and wiped his hands on a white towel. “Come aboard. I’ll fix you my special grouper sandwich.”

  She blew air from her cheeks. “Thanks, but I can't stay long.” She cut her piercing eyes at me. “Mr. O'Brien, I didn't get a chance to thank you for what you did.”

  “You didn't stick around long enough to, but I'm glad you're safe.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don't mean to intrude, but can I talk to you in private?”

  “Jupiter's two boats down. We can chat there. Mind if Max tags along?”

  She smiled for a second and looked at Max. “Sure. She's sweet.”

  “So am I,” Nick said with open arms. “But only in an Uncle Nick kind of way.”

  Something moved over her eyes like black ice. Nick lowered his arms, grinned, cleared his throat and said, “I'm gonna make you a take-out meal. 'Cause if I don't, Dave will give you a chocolate éclair and maybe send your blood sugar so high you fall off the dock.” He grinned.

  The glacier melted from her eyes. She nodded. “That would be good, thank you.”

  I lifted Max up and walked with Courtney to Jupiter. The boat wore its fresh colors well, the slight smell of paint and varnish in the air, the mid-day sun licking the back of my neck. “I'll open the salon doors and let Jupiter breathe some. She’s just been re-painted. We can talk up on the fly bridge. It'll give you a nice view of the marina. You can see for miles in any direction.”

  She nodded and we climbed the steps to the bridge. “Sit anywhere you'd like,” I said, unzipping the isinglass and setting Max on the deck where she promptly began investigating the nooks and corners for new smells. Courtney sat on the long bench seat, and I lowered into the captain's chair. She looked around the marina, from the lighthouse a half mile away, to the parking lot in front of the Tiki Bar. A gentle cross-breeze delivered the smell of blooming mangroves and the salty soul of the sea.

  “How old is your dog?” she asked.

  “Max won't tell her exact age, but I know she's three, which makes her about your age in dog years.”

  Courtney smiled, eyes following Max. “I’m nineteen.” She blew air from her cheeks, her thoughts now far away. I let her take her time. Then she said, “Mr. O'Brien-”

  “Sean.”

  “Sean … anybody ever tell you that you look like that actor Gerard Butler?”

  “Not yet today.”

  Courtney smiled and said, “I came here because you seemed like you really gave a shit when you found me. I'm sorry I hid from you and ran. When you saw me walking on the road I was running away from something really bad that happened.”

  “What was that?”

  “My friend was killed. He was stabbed to death at the carnival where we both work. It was late. Lonnie was a ride operator. I talked him into letting me take a midnight ride on the Big Wheel. I feel so terrible, but there was nothing that I could do.”

  “Courtney, take it from the beginning. Leave nothing out. What happened?”

  She nodded and stared at the lighthouse a moment before looking back at me. She took a deep breath and began telling me everything that happened in her life during the last twenty-four hours. She said, “I know I shouldn’t have run off, but I didn't know what to do. I had Lonnie's blood on my hands and shirt. I've had some trouble before with the police in my life … I just didn't want to go there. I got scared and ran.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I've had to become pretty independent. My childhood turned to shit, so as I grew older I made up my mind that no one would hurt me again.”

  “Why would the killer attack your friend, Lonnie, in the middle of the night? Was it a mugging gone very badly, or was it some kind of revenge killing?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Did he have enemies? Someone he owed money to, maybe? Deal in drugs?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “And you never got a good look at the killer's face, right?”

  “He wore a hoodie. It was too dark.”

  “Why were you working at the carnival?”

  “I grew up in an Irish-American gypsy family. I'm used to being on the road. But we … or they, don’t call themselves gypsies. The name used is travelers.”

  “So did you begin working in a carnival because you like to travel?”

  “That's part of it. The other part is because I'm looking for somebody.”

  “Who's that?”

  “The man who … who hurt me, murdered my mother and father, and stole something from my grandmother, something my grandfather had given her a long time ago.” Her nostrils flared slightly, eyes forceful.

  “Who is this man you're trying to find?”

  “My uncle.”

  I thought about Nick's 'Uncle Nick' comment earlier to her. “I'm sorry to hear that. Does this man work at that carnival?”

  “I was hoping he did, but I guess I was wrong. A friend of mine told me he thought he'd seen my uncle working at a county fair that came through Charleston, South Carolina. That isn't too far from where I'd lived. So I went there. My friend said this guy was working as a weight and age guesser. That sounded like something my uncle would do.”

  “Was he good at it?”

  “Yeah, he was. As a traveler, working the summer circuit, he would sell senior citizens a new roof when they didn't need one. He’d convince people their driveway needed paving, whatever. He worked with a three-man crew, did crappy work, and like basically conned his way throughout the South. They stayed one
step away from the sheriff.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “It’s been a little more than four years.”

  “Why try to find him on your own? Maybe you should turn it over to the police.”

  “They couldn’t ever find him. It’s a cold case. My grandmother’s scared shitless of him. I can’t prove he raped me from the time I was twelve ‘till I could hold a butcher knife in my hand. Before he was spotted working at a carnival, we’d heard he was a preacher in some Kentucky mountain town. He’s mentally a sicko, but he can charm people, especially women. He knows hypnosis, too. We heard he settled there, Kentucky. Somebody supposedly started calling him a prophet. He stole every dollar the little church had.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “FBI. They came around when a man fitting my uncle’s description robbed a bank in South Boston. And he did it without a gun. The teller said she couldn’t remember anything, even giving the money to him. It was like she’d been hypnotized. My uncle's picture was on the bank's security tapes. My grandmother identified him.”

  “Is the FBI still actively looking for your uncle?”

  “I think so.”

  “What would you do if you found him?”

  She was silent for a few seconds, her eyes drifting across the marina, fingers gripping her knees, knuckles cotton-white. She swallowed dryly and whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Could this man have killed Lonnie?”

  “Maybe. If he was somehow there. He could be anywhere.”

  I watched her staring at my hands, her thoughts remote. Then she raised her riveting eyes up at me like she was looking through me. She lowered her eyes to the pendant that hung from a chain around my neck. “What is it, Courtney?”

  “The pendant you’re wearing … can I ask where you got it?”

  “It was a gift from my mother. The last thing she gave me before she and my father were killed in a car accident. That’s been many years ago.”