by Tom Lowe
“Perhaps,” said Aamed, biting into a stuffed grape leaf. “So if the younger man knows the possible location of the remaining canisters, then the two other men, the one named Cronus-the Greek guy, and the American, Sean O’Brien, would know the location as well.”
“Indeed. O’Brien, we learned, owns the boat.”
“Your thoughts, Mohammed?”
“Allah will guide us, hamdulillah. I feel we must find O’Brien.”
“If we find the material before the Russians, how shall we deal with them and recover the canisters they have?”
“We become the highest bidders. Upon retrieving the material, Waahid will become a martyr, inshallad, God willing. As the smoke clears, we leave with the material.”
Aamed’s jaw noticeably popped from controlled tension. He smiled just as the reflection of the belly dancer’s supple body moved across his dark eyes, and said, “It would seem the time is approaching to kidnap the girl as well.”
“Not yet, not until we have the material. After that, take her. We have takfir-complete authority. Then her father will come without a sound.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“Sean, you’re not going up to Rattlesnake Island tonight, are you?” Abby Lawson asked.
“The kidnappers have given Jason forty-eight hours unless we can produce the rest of the HEU. A few hours have passed already. If the stuff is there, I need to find it before they do.”
“HEU?”
“Highly enriched uranium. Maybe I can get my bearings, see the lighthouse beam coming through the fort’s watchtower. If I can find what the Germans buried that night, it will corroborate what your grandfather saw.”
Glenda looked at her watch. “It’s almost 8:00. Billy wasn’t killed until almost midnight. If you are trying to follow the evening as close as it was when he saw the men on that beach, you need to wait a few more hours.”
“I don’t have a few more hours.”
“Please,” said Glenda, touching O’Brien’s arm, “stay for coffee. The caffeine will help your vision on Rattlesnake Island. How do you take it?”
“Black’s fine, thanks.”
“Let’s take our coffee out on the back patio for a few minutes. It’s such a nice evening. I’ll tell you a quick story about Billy.”
O’Brien started to excuse himself to leave, but her face was aglow with trust, her spirit rising above the cancerous tissue and signaling the need to be heard-for Billy to be understood.
“Okay,” O’Brien said.
“Good,” nodded Glenda, holding her coffee cup in two weathered hands and stepping to a door leading into the backyard.
Abby beamed a wide smile. “We’ll join you outside in a moment, Grandma.” The old woman smiled and started humming as she walked slowly to the French doors. “My grandmother is humming, Sean. She only does that when she’s very comfortable. She’s at ease around you. She likes you and believes you can help.”
“She never remarried, right?”
Abby held her eyes on O’Brien, and then she looked at the photograph on the wall for a second before letting her gaze drift back up to O’Brien’s face. “She never found the right man. Not that she would compare every fella to Granddad. She knew what she wanted, what she had, and she didn’t want to compromise or settle for less.”
“I don’t want to sound crude, but do the doctors know how much time she has?”
“A year ago, they gave her three to six months. She’s still here. You go out there, slay a few dragons at sea, and then bring her something our government has refused to and what none of her doctors could.”
“What do I bring her?”
“Hope.”
“Please, I don’t want you or your grandmother to have any illusions about what was found in that submarine. Today, a young woman died. She was about the same age as your grandfather at his death. A German U-boat and a deadly cargo seem to be the cosmic path between the two, but like any theory of the universe, I don’t know what, how, or if it’s connected.”
“Hope is eternal and universal.” Abby pointed to a black-and-white framed photograph of a young man smiling and dressed in an Army uniform. “That’s my grandpa. He looks too young there to be a grandfather, but Grandma was carrying his baby, my mother, when that picture was taken. Mom and I should have had the privilege of knowing him, and that sweet lady out there still misses him and deserves to know who killed him.”
“I agree, Abby. But, two canisters of enriched uranium are missing. A kid I gave a summer job to is being held hostage. I don’t know if coming here tonight may be placing you and your grandmother in danger, too. You need to be on alert”
“What do you mean?”
“I was followed earlier. I lost them, but they could be back.”
“Do you believe anyone followed you here tonight?”
“I don’t think so. But, nevertheless, I want you and your grandmother to be very aware of your surroundings. They may have tortured Jason, and he could have mentioned you and your grandmother by name. He heard me tell the story of what happened to your grandfather.”
Abby hugged her arms. A shiver went through her body. “Let’s join Grandma.”
Glenda looked up as Abby and O’Brien appeared and said, “I was just listening to a nightingale across the yard in the live oak. The male nightingale is the singer, you know? When most birds are long into their nightly roost, he’s throwing his head back like the fine Italian tenor Caruso.” She paused and listened. “Hear him?”
“I haven’t heard a nightingale in a while,” O’Brien said. “At my place on the river, I hear owls at night.” O’Brien could smell gardenias blooming in the yard, the scent musky and yet feminine. He looked at Abby’s striking profile under the soft light, and admired her dedication and love for her grandmother.
She sat down by Glenda. “Grandma, Sean was just telling me about a lot of the things … really bad things that have happened since he found the U-boat. We, you and I, just need to be careful who we speak to and where we go.”
“What do you mean?”
“Glenda,” O’Brien began, “there are some very forceful people who want to get their hands on weapons-grade uranium. Nick and I hooked our anchor on the past and may have opened a door leading back to your husband. I feel responsible for what’s happened the last six days.”
“I hope you can find these people.”
“I’m going to try.”
“Maybe, when you do, in some way, it’ll shed light on a sad, dark place in my heart.”
“How do we exhume my grandfather’s body?” asked Abby.
O’Brien said, “I have a detective friend at the sheriff’s department. He’ll ask for a court order. Then the medical examiner will have a look.”
“How long will this take?” asked Glenda.
“It can be expedited, done within couple of days.”
O’Brien stood. “Thank you both for dinner.”
Glenda smiled and coughed. “It’s getting a little cool. I think I’ll go inside and read some before bed.” O’Brien opened the French doors and Glenda entered her home just as the nightingale began another song. “Good night, sweet bird, sing one more for me,” she said, vanishing into the house.
“Let me walk you to your Jeep,” Abby said
“That’s not necessary. I’ll just walk around the side yard and be on my way.”
“Please, I insist.” She strolled around a birdbath and the blooming bougainvillea.
“Wait, you are a stubborn lady.”
She paused, looked back, and smiled. “Yes, yes I am. Now, are you going to walk with me or stand there listening to the bird sing?”
O’Brien grinned. “What I’m going to do is walk you to your front door. When you go inside, make sure everything’s locked and the alarm’s set.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“Yes.”
At the front door she said, “Thank you for being such a good listener around my grandmother. I’m here as ofte
n as I can. She gets lonely.”
“I enjoyed her company, and yours.”
“I guess this is where we say goodnight.” She paused and looked up at O’Brien, the smolder of a three-quarter moon casting them in a serene glow. “Thank you for doing what you didn’t have to do. After all these years, you come along and really give a damn. Hopefully, you’re the one to right this wrong. I admire that, Sean.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, you have. You’ve given her hope. Tonight, she’ll sleep better.”
“Goodnight, Abby.”
As O’Brien started to leave, she said, “Sean ….”
He turned back to her. “Yes?”
She laughed nervously. “Maybe it’s the wine … maybe it’s the damn nightingale singing his silly head off … or maybe I’m just afraid something will happen to you out there tonight. Please be very careful.”
O’Brien was silent. He thought he heard a car engine on the next street.
She said, “Let me go with you. I can help-”
“No. It’s too dangerous, and you need to stay with your grandmother.”
“Matanzas is an inlet where the sands are always shifting due to the swift currents and the fact that there are no manmade jetties or embankments. Matanzas Inlet also has an evil past. My grandfather saw it. Between the location and those cruel people out there, I don’t want anything to happen to you either.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
O’Brien drove away from Glenda Lawson’s home and checked his mirrors. Nothing. No sign of car lights. No movement. He called Dave Collins. “How’s Max?”
“She’s lying on the sofa watching the news with me.”
“Can you keep an eye on her a little longer?”
“She’s not a bother. Nick wants to take her up to the Tiki Bar. He says women approach him when Max is sitting in his lap.”
“Is Nick there?”
“He’s in the galley cooking and drinking.”
“I hate to ask you to watch Max and Nick at the same time, but-”
“We’ll stay up talking. Are you going to make it back here for some food?”
“Just ate. I’m driving to Matanzas Inlet.”
“Sean, it’s dark. What the hell are you going to find in the dark?”
“The light, Dave, I hope. Now I have a better idea of what Billy Lawson saw that night when the Germans and Japanese came ashore after he spotted the U-boat.”
“Sean-”
“I’m going to call Dan Grant at Volusia SO and ask him to get a court order to exhume Billy Lawson’s body.”
“Between all the federal and local agencies, there must be a hundred people chasing leads while you’re chasing ghosts.”
“What’s Eric Hunter chasing?”
“Sean, you have him wrong.”
“It’s not a question of right or wrong, it’s grasping what motivates him.”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’s in as deep as you say, and he’s as good as you say he is, where are his allegiances? He may be legit … or he may be ready to score a crime of global consequences.” O’Brien could hear Dave exhale slowly.
“I hope you’re wrong about him,” Dave said.
“I do too.”
O’Brien called Volusia County Sheriff’s Detective Dan Grant. Grant, middle aged, African-American, with twenty years on the force said, “Sean O’Brien, looks like you still have my number programmed. Are you doing okay?”
“Dan, I have a big favor to ask of you.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask … what is it?”
O’Brien brought Grant up to date and said, “Billy Lawson was shot and killed in Volusia County May 19, 1945. He’s buried in Sea View Gardens. His widow, Glenda, has given us permission to exhume the body. There’s no statute of limitations for murder.”
“Exhume it for what? After all this time, what the hell can be left in a box?”
“Have the medical examiner do an autopsy best she can. We’re looking for signs of more than one bullet wound entrance. And we’re looking for bullets.”
“Sounds like a hellava scavenger hunt. Maybe the forensics test of the year.”
“See if you can get a judge to sign it tomorrow morning.”
“How’s this going to help us find who killed Taylor Andrews, the manager of the storage units?”
“I don’t know, but if you can get an emergency court order for this, the information we learn might prevent another murder, the killing of Jason Canfield. I’m trying to put pieces of the past together. It might give me a bearing on finding the rest of the U-235 canisters.”
“I don’t think Jason’s kidnappers hit Nicole Bradley. We picked up a gang-banger for that. Guy’s name is Lionel Tucker. Street name-Popeye. Did a nickel stretch for selling meth. On top of that, he’s a habitual user. When we picked him up, the guy had Nicole’s cell phone and her credit cards on him. Says he found the girl’s purse in a parking lot. He busted his probation, and he’ll sit in the county jail until a trial.”
“You might want to cut him loose, Dan.”
“What?”
“Did he admit to killing her?”
“No, says he never saw her, only saw the purse in a shopping cart.”
“He’s probably telling the truth. I’m sure the kidnappers killed her, the same men holding Jason. Check with Agent Lauren Miles. The suspect you picked up most likely found the purse where he said he did. It was a decoy, and it gave them time to kidnap Jason.”
“Who? Wait a minute, Sean-”
“The people who killed Nicole and the manager are the same. They’re very smart, fast, and ruthless. There must be an enormous price tag for the HEU.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try to find it before forty-three more hours expire.”
O’Brien was silent, watching fog rise above the ocean as he drove north on A1A.
“Okay, Sean, back to exhuming Billy Lawson’s body. What if we find evidence he died from multiple gunshot wounds? What does it prove?”
“Lies, lots of them. How far back do your homicide investigation records go?”
“I’ve never traced a case to 1945, if that’s what you mean.”
“Maybe you could check. Get the report, if there’s one. See who worked it.”
“They have to be dead.”
“One’s not.”
“Who?”
“His name’s Ford … Brad Ford. See what his involvement was, and see if you can find a current address for him.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
O’Brien looked at his watch as he pulled off the shoulder of the road near Matanzas Inlet. It was a few minutes past nine. He parked, slid his Glock under his belt, and got out of his Jeep, the engine ticking as it cooled, and waves breaking on the beach to his right. The moon rose above the Atlantic Ocean, the light giving form to a shadowy mist rising from the Matanzas River, which silently rushed through the inlet into the sea. The moving water in the pass delivered the night smells of a changing tide, wet barnacles, mangrove roots, and baitfish. He remembered fishing here twenty years earlier.
O’Brien stepped down the embankment under the Matanzas Pass Bridge, A1A now above him. A car passed. He stopped and listened, the sound of the car growing faint in the distance. He walked under the bridge to the water’s edge, following the shoreline a few feet until he had cleared the bridge above him.
A nighthawk called out as O’Brien knelt down and lowered his hand into the wide stream, the current pulling toward the sea, a receding tide. Vapor rose from the brackish river like a conga line of ghosts riding a silent night train-the river, flowing around the dark mangrove islands. O’Brien thought about what Glenda and Abby had said-history of the inlet, the bloodshed and the fact that where he stood was a back door into the New World. It was a clandestine place that gave the Spanish dominance after the slaughter of 250 French settlers.
As O’Brien moved farther toward the west, it appeared. A win
k of light in the distance. To the northeast. Then it was gone. O’Brien waited and the light reappeared, the rotation of the lamp in the St. Augustine lighthouse took twenty seconds. He looked toward the northwest, the direction of the old Spanish fort. When the wind blew and the mist vanished, the coquina shell fortress was an outline in the moonlight. Its watchtower was a silent sentry, the block fortress still making an imposing statement.
The distant beam from the lighthouse took on a diffused look when the haze returned, drifting above the water, becoming lost in the dark. Then, suddenly, like a flock of startled birds in the wind, the apparitions were gone. The silent stone sentinel remained, the edges of the coquina blocks worn, resembling stooped shoulders in a halo of revolving light.
The light rotated in its 360-degree arch behind the old fort. Nothing punched through an opening in the watchtower. O’Brien kept walking in a westward direction, glancing up at the fort each time the light swept it. Nothing. He slapped the sand fleas biting the back of his neck.
Looking toward the fort, he waited for the rotation of the light. As it swept behind the fort, the turret was dark and ominous. O’Brien studied the stream and a large sandbar just beneath the surface that straddled almost the distance of the stream. He took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants and stepped into the water. It was cool, and he felt minnows nibbling at his ankles. O’Brien sloshed through the water glancing up at the fort each sweep of the light, walking toward Rattlesnake Island.
He dropped, water covering his head. It was as if a wool blanket was tossed over him. He knew he’d stepped into a hole. Water rushed around his body, sucking him downstream. A rip current pulled his clothes, his pants and shirt felt like dead weight.
O’Brien kicked through the current and soon found the sandbar again. He stood and regained his balance, water dripping from his face, hungry mosquitoes orbiting his head with bloodthirsty whines.
Rattlesnake Island had a strip of sandy beach, but fifty feet into the interior, it turned to mangroves and gnarled trees, bent like old men stooping in a field under the moonlight. O’Brien stepped across the sand a few feet to the west, wondering how the inlet, the island, and the topography had changed since Billy Lawson stood somewhere near. When he looked up toward the fort, he stopped in his tracks. In the direction of the lighthouse, it looked as if someone was signaling with a lantern from the watchtower, the window glowed for a second.
