by Lowe, Tom
I watched him. He leveled the pistol. Held it with both hands. Stepped to within three feet of the window. Pointed the .45 and fired in rapid succession: bam—bam—bam—bam—bam.
Five shots. At the end of the fifth round, lightning exploded in the top of a tall pine. Thunder reverberated. I dropped from the roof. All two-hundred-ten pounds landing squarely on his shoulders. He fell flat on his back, his lungs trying to suck air into them. I slammed the shotgun stock into the center of his forehead. His eyes glazed, looked at me, black streaks running down on my face, wet hair, right fist cocked. His eyes grew wide—confused, and then dull, a second before rolling back in their sockets.
I turned him over, pulled his hands behind his back, and used duct tape to bind them. Then I picked him up, lifting the dead weight over my shoulder, carrying him through the rain down to my dock. I lowered him to the very end of the dock, extending more than seventy-five feet into the river. The rain stopped and quiet settled over the river. I looped a rope around the man’s belt. His eyelids flickered and then opened. He stared up at the night sky, the black clouds gone, the moon back, its light reflecting off the dark surface of the river. A cottonmouth moccasin made S movements swimming across the river.
I stood over the man and said, “I love a full moon. It really makes the river come alive. Lots of activity on the St. Johns under a full moon. What’s your name, soldier?”
He cut his green eyes to my face. Silence.
“Okay. I assume you’re under orders not talk about your mission. But you see, part of your mission included hurting a good friend of mine when you and your buddy broke into her home. I know you like to play with fire. You know what I like to play with? I’ll tell you … alligators.”
He’s eyes narrowed. I could see him dry swallow. I said, “Tell me who sent you.”
He shook his head. “You can’t stop them. They have access to dozens of guys like me. You might stop me, but another will take my place immediately.”
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who sent you?”
“Go to hell.”
“We’re seventy-five feet out into the river. From this point, the current kicks to the right because it hits the jetty just before my property, and it flows faster toward the center of the river. Similar to how a billiard ball bounces from the rail of the table. So when I throw you off my dock, you’ll be in the center of the river in less than half a minute. My guess is that it’ll take the first gator about that amount of time to swim to you. It’s mating season, and they’re more hungry than usual.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“When a big guy like you tortures a woman, a friend of mine, it brings that trait out in me. Guess what, there’s a gator in here longer than my two-man kayak. I call him Samson. My neighbor says ol’ Samson pulled down a huge deer that tried swimming the river a month ago. Who sent you?”
“Fuck you!”
I kicked him off the end of the dock. He vanished under the black water, seconds later popping up more than fifteen feet from the dock. With his hands behind his back, he kicked hard, trying to tread water. The current carried him farther away from my dock. He fought hard to keep his head above water. Splashing. Spitting water. Ringing the dinner bell.
There was the sound of a plop across the river, like a tree falling into the water. I said, “Hear that? That was probably Samson. He’ll crush your entire chest cavity in one bite. The next gator will clamp down on your leg. It’ll be a tug of war. They’ll pull you apart like a wishbone.”
Under the moonlight, he looked around frantically, head moving side to side. He could see a large alligator swimming from the far bank of the river. Nostrils and eyes out of the water. The tail like a big paddle.
“Get me outta here!” he screamed.
I rolled video on my phone. “Who sent you?”
“Pull me in!”
“Who sent you?”
“Please! I have a wife and kids!”
The gator was less than one hundred feet away. Eyes like rubies in the moonlight.
“Pull the damn rope!”
“Tell me what I want to know.”
“I don’t know!”
“Bullshit.”
“Please!”
The gator was gaining, swimming faster.
“I can’t die like this!”
“This is the last time … who sent you?”
“Orders came down from Senator Logan’s camp.”
“Who in his camp?”
“I don’t fucking know! Swear to God!”
“Gator’s about thirty seconds from you.”
“I heard it was Timothy Goldberg. He runs Logan’s donor campaign.”
“What do they want?”
“The girl dead.”
“What girl?”
“Courtney Burke. She’s a huge liability for Logan. Please!”
I set the phone down, lifted my Glock and fired a shot in front of the gator to scare it. It submerged beneath the surface. I pulled the rope—fast, hand-over-hand, reeling in the terrified soldier. I grabbed his belt and lifted him up and out of the river, the gator rising to the surface less than twenty feet away. The man flopped on the dock, exhausted, breathing hard, vomiting. I played back a few seconds of his confession on video. He looked up at the video screen on the phone, his face in sheer disbelief. He closed his eyes.
I said, “Get up.”
“Wha—”
“Up!” I lifted him to his feet, left his hands tied, picked up the shotgun, and chambered a shell. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Where?”
“To your car.”
I followed behind him. We walked to the highway and more than one hundred yards west. He’d parked the car under some live oak trees off the road. I said, “Here’s the plan. You’re getting off easy tonight. You’re going to drive away, meet with your contractor and tell him your confession is on video—taped under the moonlight, good sound and a clear picture. Your team is going to let Goldberg and Logan know that if they continue hunting Courtney Burke, I will upload this video to YouTube. Let’s see how fast it’ll go viral. And then let’s see how fast Logan’s presidential bid goes down in flames. Turn around.”
He turned around and I used my knife to slice through the duct tape. I stepped back, tapped him between the shoulder blades with the shotgun and said, “Get out of here. Deliver the message and all of this stays buried. If you ever return, you won’t walk away.”
He opened the door to his car and turned back to me. “Who the hell are you and where the fuck did you train?”
I was silent, the cicadas echoing in the woods.
“The girl … is she your daughter? Is that why you’re putting the crosshairs across your back?”
“I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.”
He shook his head, started the car, and drove down the road, the red wash from taillights spattering against the cabbage palms and live oaks. I watched him drive past my driveway.
This time he didn’t tap the brakes.
67
The next morning I met Dave for breakfast at Crabby Joe’s, a small restaurant plopped on the side of a fishing pier off Daytona Beach. After I told him what happened on the river, I held out a flash-drive and said, “It’s all on here. I made a copy to give to you as an insurance policy of sorts.”
He looked over his hot cup of black coffee. “Insurance?”
“If something happens to me, upload this video to YouTube and call a damn news conference. It’s the only way Courtney, and for that matter, Kim, will be safe.”
He took the drive, looked at it for a moment, and dropped it into the pocket of his Hawaiian print shirt. “So the mercenary hit man was hired by Logan’s top dog, Timothy Goldberg, and ostensibly by Logan himself. The guy’s got ice water in his bloodstream. Regardless, dismiss with this talk of something happening to you. All right, what we have is the seamy side of presidential politics captured on a steamy, alligator-infested river. An
d now, Sean, the old proverbial truism is most applicable to you: when you’re up to your ass in political alligators, what happens if you drain the swamp and find the bodies?”
“Logan’s people know where they’re hidden. I’m hoping I bought some time for Courtney. That phone number I gave you, did you manage to find a physical address?”
“Of course. I found an address and an ID.”
“What’s her name?”
“Katherine O’Sullivan.”
“I wonder who she is … and what’s her relationship to Courtney Burke?”
“Could be a relative or a friend. If she’s Courtney’s mother, that means you certainly aren’t her father. And that, my friend, is one hell of a relief. Ponce Marina might return to its former sleepy self.”
I stirred my coffee and looked at the breakers rolling below us on the beach, the briny scent of the surf drifting up through quarter-inch spaces between the planks in the weathered pier. Through the enclosed screen, I watched a seagull perched on the dock railing turn to face the breeze across the Atlantic.
Dave sipped his coffee, his eyes filled with deliberations. “I know, after all is said and done, it would be nice getting to know a daughter you never knew existed. Sometimes truth is a double-edge sword, it often heals the heart by cutting the heart. It leaves scars. A magician’s secret, once revealed, shows the truth behind the illusion, and in doing so, the show is never quite the same.”
“I have no illusions.”
“Maybe not, but you’re human. You have hope or you wouldn’t do what you do and you wouldn’t be the man you are. Look, Courtney still faces murder charges. If she’s acquitted, if the charges are dropped, life goes on. Even a president-elect Logan, should he win, can survive the backstory of his wife’s decision to give up a child years ago. However, his political career won’t endure a long trial in which his wife’s biological daughter is found guilty of multiple murders.”
“Maybe this woman, Katherine O’Sullivan, is the key. What’s her address?”
Dave removed a small, folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Here you go. Maybe she’s the key to Courtney’s past and future. And if there’s no connection to your past, that means you step out of this mental cellblock and walk away, Sean. Courtney Burke becomes someone else’s concern.”
“You make it sound easy. Whether she’s my daughter or not, she’s somebody’s daughter. I don’t believe she’s guilty of murder—only self-defense, and that’s not a crime.”
“But you don’t know that yet. Leave it to Detective Grant or the feds.”
“To do what? Put a bullet in the back of Courtney’s head? Dan Grant is just trying to do his job, but the feds—at least whoever’s working for Logan, are the type of soldiers who’d roast Kim’s hand over a blue flame and then go home to a family meal.”
“Maybe this Katherine O’Sullivan is the link to Courtney’s family.”
“The only way to find out is to go there. Max is napping in the Jeep. You mind taking her back to the marina, keeping an eye on her until I get back?”
“You don’t even have to ask.”
“Thanks, Dave.”
“You leaving now?”
“Right after I visit the hospital.”
***
After I showed my ID at the reception desk at Halifax Hospital, left a thumb print, and had my picture taken, I was given clearance to visit Kim Davis, room 222, second floor. I bought a dozen red roses in the gift shop and stepped into the elevator. The odor of bleach and hand sanitizer mixed with the scent of the roses as I walked down the long hallway. Nurses darted in and out of rooms, doctors spoke quickly into portable Dictaphones, recording detailed patient medical data but often never really knowing who it was that they were treating.
A sheriff’s deputy sat outside room 222 reading a Sports Illustrated magazine. He had a clipboard propped up on the wall behind his plastic chair. I introduced myself and had him check to see if I was on the visitors list. I was. Chalk one up for Detective Dan Grant.
I entered the room and stopped after the door closed behind me. Kim lay in the bed, IVs attached to both arms, her face bruised, a monitor recording her heart rate. Even through the wires, tubes, and bandages, she was beautiful—the light from the window falling on her sleeping face. I stepped next to her bed and stood there for a moment, watching her breathe. I wanted to say something, but didn’t want to wake her from a tranquil sleep. I set the roses on a table next to her bed and heard, “Hello, stranger.” Her voice sounded drowsy.
I turned around. Kim was awake, eyes heavy, a smile spreading. I grinned. “Stranger? Come on, you’ve been out like a light. You don’t know how long I’ve been here, or how many times I’ve been here.”
“A girl knows. It’s an intuitive thing. Even in our sleep, we know if someone special is here. Also, how could I be out like a light? If a light’s out, it’s no longer a light. Oh, my head feels like it’s in a vice. Those roses are soooo beautiful! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. What are the doctors telling you?”
“They’re fairly sure I suffered a concussion. I had twenty-two stitches in the back of my head and some internal bleeding. The good news is that I can go home tomorrow. Detective Grant told me you shot one of the men. Did you … did you kill him?”
“I don’t know. A body hasn’t been found. I did find the other guy.”
“You did?”
“Yes. He decided to pay me a visit at my cabin on the river.”
“Why?”
“He wanted information.”
“Did he get it?”
“He gave more than he received. He took a message back to his leader. I believe it’ll be safe for you to go home tomorrow. Rest and get well, okay? I have to go now.”
She lifted her hand, an IV taped to the back of it. “You just got here, Sean. Don’t go.”
“I wish I didn’t have to. I’ve got to bring this thing to a stop. I’ll be back soon.”
“Where are you going?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t say.”
“I thought you said I was safe.”
“Safer. You’re much safer now. I don’t think they’ll be back.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m afraid for you. Are you still trying to find Courtney?”
“Yes.”
“I have no doubt that you’ll find her. But I don’t know what you’ll find. I only met her briefly, but she seemed like a good kid. If she’s your daughter, she’d have to be.”
I bent down and kissed Kim on her forehead. “Get well.”
“Be careful, Sean. I don’t know if it’s the meds they have me on, but I’ve been having bad dreams, really dark stuff … and you’re there … caught in the middle.”
68
Five hours and seventeen minutes. I looked at my watch as I started to cross the Savannah River. Five hours and seventeen minutes earlier, I’d left Kim’s hospital room and driven nonstop from Ponce Inlet to Augusta, Georgia. Crossing the Savannah River on Highway 25, over the James Jackson Bridge, I felt as if I was crossing a bridge over troubled waters. I’d read somewhere that the Savannah River itself was one of the most toxic rivers in the nation. The bridge spanned the river, connecting Georgia with South Carolina. I was en route to a place called Murphy Village in South Carolina, a few miles north of the Savannah River.
I continued driving up Highway 25, following a printed map in search of the address Dave Collins had given to me. I’d removed the battery and sim cards from my phones. Didn’t use a portable GPS either. Didn’t want to chance an eye in the sky following me. I glanced from the map in my hand to my gas gauge. Nineteen miles until empty.
I pulled off the road and stopped at a Chevron station. I stepped inside to pay the clerk cash before pumping. I bought a large coffee, black, paid and walked back outside. An older model blue pickup truck eased up to the pump opposite the one I was using. A man dressed in faded overalls and a sweat-stained John Deere green cap, got out of the tru
ck. He was at least seventy, lanky, unshaved, face filled with white whiskers. He nodded at me and said, “We sure need some rain. My corn crop won’t make it another three days if we don’t get us a damn good rain.”
“What’s the forecast?”
“Hot, hot, and hotter. Damndest weather in the last few years than anytime I can remember. I ain’t no tree hugger, but I damn sure believe we mucked up stuff so much it’s affected the climate. You work the land, you can tell.” He nodded and started pumping gas into the old truck. He looked back at me. “Where you from?”
“Florida.”
“Ya’ll got hit hard with a freeze last winter. Ruined most of the citrus.”
“You’re right. How far is Murphy Village?”
I saw his right eyebrow rise up. “It’s about ten miles down twenty-five. Can’t miss it. The place is mansions and junkyards. Industrial, residential, and even some agricultural land all rolled into one place.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t want to sound nosey, but why would a fella from Florida want to go there?”
“I’m looking for someone.”
He nodded, glanced at the gasoline pump, and cut his eye back to me. “Lemme give you a little friendly advice. Don’t hire anybody in there to do anything for you. If your car needs fixin,’ go someplace else.”
“Why the caution?”
“That’s the largest population of Irish gypsies in the country. They call themselves travelers, not gypsies, but it’s the same. Every summer the men head out, they travel all over the nation. Some use fake ID’s. Fake license plates on their trucks and cars. They’ll paint your house with watered-down paint. Repave your driveway with materials that don’t last. Fix your roof ‘til the next big cloud-buster. By then, they’re long gone. They’re some of the best con artists anywhere. Smooth talkers. One fella will knock at your door, with a sob story, or a deal that’s too damn good to be true. His partner will be stealing your silver. The elderly, people my age, that’s their prime targets.”
