by Lowe, Tom
The camera shot cut to the field reporter, a square-jawed, dark-haired man wearing an open sports coat, standing next to an airboat. “That’s right, Larry, police and FBI say they have made a positive identification in the tragic death of a young woman found here in Barateria Swamp by a tour boat operator. Investigators are saying the body is that of nineteen-year-old Gina Boudreaux, reported missing more than a week ago. Two remaining teeth in the girl’s body matched with dental records. Then police got a DNA sample from the Boudreaux family in St. James Parish. Also, we’re told there was an apparent match of a small tattoo, a sunflower, on the girl’s left shoulder. Her distraught parents say the last time they saw their daughter was last Saturday when she came into New Orleans to visit the area voodoo shops. Gina Boudreaux’s car was found abandoned three blocks from the French Quarter. Police and federal agents have few leads and apparently no suspects in this grisly murder. Reporting live from Barateria Swamp, this is Peter Zimmer, now back to you in the studio.”
The image cut to a blonde news anchorwoman who said, “Thanks, Peter. On a national scale, the news of the murdered girl’s identification means that the whereabouts of Courtney Burke, wanted in connection with the deaths of three carnival workers, and the young woman who may be the daughter of Andrea Logan and her college boyfriend, Sean O’Brien, is still unknown. Andrea Logan’s husband, the presumed Republican presidential nominee, Senator Lloyd Logan, says he stands by his wife, and says that their long-time relationship and marriage has no bearing on what happened in the past, after Andrea Logan gave a baby up for adoption twenty years ago. More on this breaking story tonight at eleven.”
Nick hit the mute button and turned toward me. “Wow, what the hell are you gonna do now?”
“Find Courtney.”
“Nobody can find her, and everybody is looking.”
“But they’re not looking in the right place. I don’t know why she went to New Orleans, but I know where she’s going. She’s trying to find her uncle, my brother, Dillon.”
“Why?” Dave asked, turning his head from the television to me.
“Retribution, among other things. He killed her mother, his sister—our sister, and raped Courtney when she was a young woman. I have a feeling in my gut that he killed the three carny workers.”
Nick’s dark eyebrows lifted. “What? You said Miami cops just picked up a guy who left a thumbprint on the ice pick.”
“They did. His print along with Courtney’s print is on the same ice pick. No eyewitnesses. No security camera video. The suspect says he wasn’t there and didn’t do it. But he was there, at least working for the carnival as a motorcycle stunt rider. He’d been hypnotized to become fearless to drive a motorcycle in the Cage of Death. If hypnosis, with a guy like that, can remove his fear of death, could it eliminate his fear of capture or guilt in a killing?”
Dave said, “Killing as in murder, of course. Not self-defense.”
“Exactly. What if a master hypnotist could plant a post-hypnotic suggestion, or a command, to have someone killed? Maybe that order is triggered from a cell phone call or some other remote way to prompt whatever psychological tripwire that’s needed to send this person into a robotic kill mode and not recall anything after it’s done. The killer could beat any polygraph because he has absolutely no connection to the act. Courtney said Dillon Flanagan is a master hypnotist. He knew Courtney was going to cause trouble for him, bring in murder and rape charges. He killed her mother and father. He’d have no hesitation to kill her, or frame her for murder … especially if he could hypnotize someone else to do it.”
Nick said, “This kind of brainwashing sounds like the Manchurian Candidate movie.”
Dave nodded. “It’s mind control. The CIA experimented with it for years. Began in the 1950’s as something call MK-Ultra, or code name Artichoke. Candidates, if you will, most susceptible to it, are subjects with what’s called a dissociative mental state, in other words, those who’ve been hurt or abused, even those with PTS … people who found detachment in creating more than one personality.”
Nick popped the cap off a Corona. “But for the average Joe, you can’t manipulate his personality to assassinate another human if that truly goes against the person’s conscience.”
Dave said, “We’re talking subconscious, Nick, which means a much altered state-of-mind. To engage an unconscious action that doesn’t have the rational parameters found in the conscious mind. And that, for most of us, comes with a guilty conscience if we cross the line—the scruples and morality factors found in our knowledge of right and wrong. So in mind control, to bypass that, the hypnotized person might answer his or her cell phone and hear the words yellow-dog, and then become an assassin, following a preprogramed post-hypnotic command.”
I said, “And, in theory, they have no memory of how they were hypnotized, or who did it. This creates the ultimate mole or spy because, even under torture, they can’t break since they have no source memory of the connection—the orders and who gave them.”
Dave stirred his drink. “And you think Dillon, your biological brother, might be capable of this level of hypnosis?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s beginning to look like that’s how he functions.”
“There’s no expiration date for a post-hypnotic suggestion, or in this case, command. If he’s that good at entering the human subconscious and essentially derailing the ethics of the conscience, then what if he has a band of followers he’s recruited. People he’s met, mesmerized, and hypnotized to do his bidding at his will? Would they be his subservient drones—each person fundamentally two people in one body?”
Nick ran his fingers through his hair, glanced out the window and said, “This is getting crazier by the hour. You have a mastermind psychotic brother, with a Cain complex, and a politician with a littler pecker personality, and both of ‘em have a hard on to screw you to the floor. More news types are shooting video of your boat, Sean. We got to get you the hell outta here. Someplace safe. Someplace where you aren’t bothered by what amounts to a bunch of paparazzi.”
Dave stood and looked out the tinted window. “Nick’s right. Looks like the paparazzi bus just hit Ponce Marina. You could always just step out there on the dock and tell the media that Courtney is your niece not the daughter of you and Andrea Logan. But with all members of your family dead, none of the Irish travelers the type to go on camera to corroborate or even say they knew or knew of Courtney in Murphy Village, you will literally have to produce Courtney in person to disprove what the news media have been hammering—this forbidden love child, serial killer scenario. The question is … how can you find Courtney Burke before they do, before Logan’s special ops guys find her … or God forbid, before your brother locates her?”
“I fly to Ireland.”
“Ireland? You think she’s there?”
“No, but the man who is my brother’s biological father is there. He stays in contact with Dillon. If I find him, I’ll find my brother. And just maybe before Courtney can get to Dillon … or before he can get to her.”
82
A half hour later, two Volusia County Sheriff’s deputies and a rent-a-cop, hired by the marina, began to escort the news media off the private dock, back toward the Tiki Bar. In the meantime, Dave was searching online, and wherever else in the digital world where he finds data, people and places. He looked at me, over his laptop, bifocals at the tip of his nose, his probing face lit by the bluish light from the screen. “It took a little digging, but I found the current whereabouts of Father Thomas Garvey.”
Nick said, “Bet the old bastard is lying six feet under in an Irish cemetery.”
“No, he’s still alive and kicking. And he’s still a priest despite the fact that the Catholic Church relocated him to four different parishes, each time because of allegations of sex abuse. The church paid out more than six million in lawsuits filed against Father Garvey and two other Irish priests. Most of the class-ac
tion litigation filed years after the abuse. And Father Thomas Garvey was right in the thick of things. The church simply moved him around, paid hefty fines, and tried to keep a low profile.”
Nick said, “Just like whack-a-mole, you whack-a-pedophile-priest and he pops up somewhere else. Hide your kids, mama. There’s a new guy at the church. They rotate their pedophiles ‘till the music stops, and that’s a sad damn song.”
I set Max down on the salon floor. “Where is he right now?”
Dave looked down, through his bifocals, his eyes searching the screen. “A church in County Cork. St. Colman’s Cathedral. It’s in Cohb … an Irish seaport. He’s semi-retired. According to this bio, Father Garvey continues to serve God and his parishioners as a teacher, healer, and a minister, following the example set by the first priest, Jesus Christ.”
I thought of my mother, thought of what she endured. Thought of what might have happened had my father lived and not been shot in the back of his head. What would that have meant for me? The two people who raised me were fine, loving parents. The year of their tragic deaths, my mother died in a car accident a few months after my father was shot to death, was a life-changing year for me. I missed them then, and I miss them today. Now, I know, the only mother I’d ever known, was my biological mother’s cousin. I was fortunate. I had a good upbringing, and at the end I had four hours with the woman who had given me birth.
Dave closed his laptop and pushed back in his chair. “Sean, maybe Ireland’s not such a good idea. Even if you do go and find this guy, he might clamp up tighter than a clam. If he knows where Dillon Flanagan is, there’s no assurance he’ll tell you. And if he did, what’s to keep him from warning your brother? Maybe you can track Courtney down from here.”
“Time isn’t on my side. If Logan’s people can throw her into the trunk of a car, we’ll never find her. And the bastard will probably win the election, too.”
Nick said, “And don’t forget about your brother.”
“I can’t forget about him, the cold warning he whispered to me on the phone won’t leave.”
Dave pushed his glasses on the top of his head, buried in his thick, white hair. He exhaled like a bear and said, “Cain killed his brother, lied to God about it, was banished and roamed the earth. We know your brother, Dillon, is migratory–working carnivals, conning the faithful in small churches. I think you’re going to Ireland for an ulterior motive, too. The old priest might squawk and tell you where Dillon’s holing up, but the priest is the guy who raped your mother, impregnated her with a bastard son … and he may be the killer who ended your father’s life with a bullet. Since we’re talking forty-something years ago, way before all the public outcry over the clergy and pedophilia, here was a heterosexual priest raping young women under the bullshit deception of a divine plan. And it’s not until years later, his victims, all grown women, are finally heard. Unfortunately, your mother wasn’t one of them.”
I stood and stepped to the starboard window in the salon. The lone security guard paced at the end of the dock, near Jupiter. All of the news media were back at the public area, the head of the dock closest to the marina office and the Tiki Bar. I said, “Nick, I don’t want to walk through the mob. Can you bring your Zodiac around to Gibraltar’s stern? Max and I will hitch a ride with you to my Jeep.”
“No problem.” He left Gibraltar, hands buried in his jean pockets, looking east and west on the dock, as if there was two-way traffic. The news media on Nick’s mind.
Dave said, “You can leave Max here if you want. She’s no problem.”
“Thanks, but since I’m traveling overseas, I don’t know when I’ll return. And when I do come back, I’m going to be tracking down Courtney, or Dillon, or both. My neighbors, Martha and Herb on the river, will beat me up if I don’t let Max spend some time with them when I’m gone.”
Dave stepped from the salon to the door leading to Gibraltar’s cockpit, his eyes filled with concern, looking away from me, and then back. He said, “Be careful, Sean. I have an uncomfortable feeling about this one. You’re too close to the source. One way or the other, you’re untying family knots. Courtney. Your brother. The child you produced with Andrea Logan is presumably still out there somewhere in all of this. Make damn sure the knot you untie first is the hangman’s knot. Too many people want to slip it over your head and kick the chair out from under you. Be careful. We’ve seen you fight battles for others, but never have you had to battle your own family. When those combat aspects change, you change. I can already see it in your eyes. Revenge does not become you, Sean … it becomes the executioner, and it digs two graves.”
“That’s not my motivation. Courtney’s safety is.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes searched my face.
“Yes.”
“Okay then.” Dave exhaled and slapped me on the back. “Stay safe.”
“If you don’t hear from me in three days, I want you to upload the video confession of the guy I pulled from the river.”
“It’s definitely your ace in this house of cards. Play it smart, Sean.”
I heard Nick’s small Evinrude engine sputtering on the stern of his inflatable Zodiac. I scooped up Max, walked to the dive platform on the back of Gibraltar, and quickly got in the Zodiac. Nick nodded at Dave, gunned the little fifteen-horsepower motor, and we cut a path across the marina.
Max stepped to the bow and stood on her hind legs, ears flapping in the wind, eyes bright. I glanced back at Nick, his hand on the throttle, his seaman’s dark eyes searching the boats in the marina. He grinned and gave me the thumbs up sign. I nodded and did the same. As we glided over the water, Dave’s voiced replayed back in my head like a smooth stone skipping across the surface of my thoughts. Revenge does not become you, Sean … it becomes the executioner, and it digs two graves.
83
Forty minutes later, Max and I were pulling onto my driveway on the river. The acorns and shells popping under the Jeep’s tires now had the soothing rhythm sound of symphonic music. And my rustic cabin by the river stood like an old friend welcoming me home after the war. I thought about the mansions and trailers, warehouses, tool and die shops, all stitched together on a commercial and residential quilt across the rolling acreage of Murphy Village.
In a way, I suppose, the last few days were not unlike a war. I’d been threatened—three times, shot at, dodged the news media posse, and spent four hours listening to stories about a life and family I never knew existed. But it was more than worth it because I got to spend time with my mother. I’d found her, lost her, and buried her in a span of a few days. I’d placed flowers on the grave of my murdered sister and learned it was my brother who’d killed her.
I tried to wrap my mind around it. And the fact that I still had a daughter I’d never met out there somewhere. Maybe I’d take Max down to the Everglades, rent a canoe, and simply vanish for a couple of weeks. But I know I’d return to another death—the murder of my niece, Courtney. And that’s assuming her body was recoverable. My mother asked me to return her to safety.
And that I would do.
Before entering the cabin, Max and I checked the perimeter. She sniffed, peed, chased a squirrel and reclaimed her world by the river. I checked windows and doors for any subtle signs of entry. Everything looked as I had left it, in what felt like a lifetime ago. I glanced up at the camera they’d mounted in the old oak closest to my home, the bullet hole almost dead center in the shattered lens.
I disarmed the alarm system, entered our home, and went online to buy airline tickets. Round-trip. I didn’t plan to stay long. I fixed Max dinner. Then I poured a Jameson’s over ice, and the two of us followed each other down the backyard to my dock. We sat at the end of it, Max enjoying her fish and lamb nuggets, me enjoying the Irish whiskey and beginnings of a marvelous sunset over the river. The air was cool, smelling of honeysuckles and trumpet flowers.
I wanted the glow of the sun to hang over the river a little longer, to stay and let Max and I bask in its w
armth, its light. I’d seen too much darkness in the last few days and I wasn’t ready to say farewell to the one thing that separated us from the cloak of darkness, the stealth of the night.
Within minutes, the sun slipped below the oxbow bend in the river, stoking the bellies of low-hanging clouds with crimson embers, the light reflecting from the moving water with the heartbeat of life, the clouds like masked faces spilling blood red tears into the river.
I pulled the Glock from under my belt, set it next to me, and sipped the Irish whiskey. A gentle breeze caused the weeping willow branches to sway, the tree’s narrow limbs like long fingers tickling back of the river. Trumpet vines, filled with purple flowers, mixed with the yellow blossoms of riverbank grapes and poured motionless over the embankment near the river like a frozen waterfall of color. Max and I watched an osprey catch its bass dinner from the center of the river.
It was good to be home.
I looked over to Max, her ears rising, nostrils quivering, a minor growl somewhere in her throat.
“What do you hear, girl?”
She cut her brown eyes back to me, almost asking me to be quiet so she could listen closer. She focused her attention on the road. A car drove by slowly, too slowly. The driver touched the brakes twice and continued driving. I lifted my Glock and stood from the bench. Max jumped up, huffed a subdued bark, and began trotting off the dock to the backyard.
“Max, let’s take it easy.” I lifted her off the ground, carried her to the screened-in back porch, and said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” I closed the door. She looked at me like I was an alien and she paced the worn cedar flooring, her ears following the unseen.
I slipped into the woods adjacent to my property, fireflies crawling out of the pine needles, from under leaves, rising up with their lanterns winking. I walked toward the road, Glock in my right hand, ready for Logan’s soldiers to step over the line in the sand. And this was the last line I’d draw.
