Her father broke into the first parked car they found next to a rural residence. They drove off, careening and bouncing over the dirt road until they reached a main thoroughfare. Fawn made a mental note she owed the owners.
Now she could add accessory to grand theft auto to her recent list of criminal activities.
“You haven’t told me where we’re going. Where is the iron container?”
“To the Gulf Coast. Two miles outside Cedar Key is the Lower Suwannee National Wildlife Refuge. One of the access roads leads to the coast where there’s an ancient Indian shell midden.”
“What’s a midden?”
“A refuse heap mound. It’s a wide area, I don’t know, probably several acres if not more, where the land elevates to about twenty-eight feet above sea level. It was created by Eastern Woodland Indians who inhabited the area from 200 AD to approximately 1550. The mound is composed of discarded oyster and clamshells the Indians ate.”
“Oyster and clam shells are white. Shell against the white wall,” Fawn said, understanding.
“Exactly,” Juan said.
“How come the iron container hasn’t been found before now?”
“It may be covered. There isn’t any reason for archeologists to use metal detectors on the mound. They wouldn’t be expecting to find anything metallic there. Because of its historic nature, to my knowledge, the shells have never been disturbed.”
They soon reached the Interstate. The drive to Cedar Key across the state would take at least three hours.
“Father,” Fawn started in a disheartened tone. “Did you hear what that man said about Mike? Mike is a killer?”
“Yes, Honey, I did, although I don’t know what killer you’re referring to. Someone else is involved. I frequently heard Tony Liáng speaking to someone on the phone.”
Fawn changed the subject as tears formed in her eyes. “What did they do to you, Father?”
He deflected the question. “Please tell me everything you know. Tell me about Mike and the keys you found.”
It took Fawn two hours to reveal everything that had occurred during the last few weeks. She finished with the unknown, and as yet inexplicable, tie between the hunt for the treasure and the serial killings, as well as how police now had an APB out for Terrence Courtland, Elizabeth’s brother, who was thought to have died in the attacks of 9/11. Of course Liáng’s assertion that Mike was involved added a new and disturbing wrinkle.
The more she had talked, the more her father had asked questions. He was astounded by what he heard, not to mention amazed by what his daughter had uncovered about the treasure. She had found out more about the Zaile treasure in two weeks than he had been able to accomplish in three decades.
Then Juan gave an account of his captivity, although Fawn was certain he softened it so as not to upset her further.
After his arm was severed underwater by the iron container, he made it back to his boat nearly unconscious. He quickly hid the key inside the cigar box then hid the cigar box in the secret compartment in the boat.
The next he knew, he awoke in a bed. He was attended by a very nervous physician. Tony Liáng was standing behind the doctor. He realized he was in a bedroom, not in a hospital room. He was vaguely aware of a tourniquet wrapped around the stump where his arm had been. He heard the doctor mention something about strong antibiotics to prevent systemic infection.
Then Juan had awoken every so often to find the doctor replacing the gauze, mumbling about infection, bleeding, and draining. It seemed like he woke to this constantly, for god knows how many days in a row. He remembered the doctor telling him once that he had cauterized the blood vessels and grafted a piece of skin over the area in order to make a stump. He had been in such a fog, probably from pain killers, he was unclear on everything that happened and how much time passed. The doctor never returned, and only Tony Liáng was there. After that, he was restrained in bed and periodically given food and water.
“I have a feeling when the doctor’s usefulness expired, he was killed.”
“What did this Tony Liáng want with you?”
“To ask me questions about my search for the Zaile treasure. It was then I knew they hadn’t found my cigar box in the boat. You know, in all the time I’d been looking for it, no one else seemed to care, but in the month or two before I found the iron container on the seafloor, people started to nose around. I don’t know what triggered their interest.”
Fawn spoke with a gulp. “Your arm…washed up on the beach. That’s why you were presumed dead.”
They continued southwest on Highway 24. They reached the last large city, Gainesville. Beyond, the two-lane highway would lead them to Cedar Key.
They stopped for gas, and Fawn paid with cash. She took over driving, allowing her father to nap. The Indian Mound was an hour’s drive away. Soon, an exhausted Juan Cortez was snoring.
Fawn contemplated the events with Tony Liáng at the creek. Something about his behavior was not right. He acted as if he were certain she didn’t have a gun, had failed to frisk her even though she had passed right by him. Then the man seemed utterly shocked when she fired upon him.
The man had also seemed unconcerned about learning the use of the keys. It made no sense, since that had been one of the ransom demands. The other puzzling thing had been his timing. She wondered why someone would go to all the trouble to save her father last May and to keep him captive for months. Why were the ransom demands made now rather than last June or July? Why wait until September?
The answer suddenly became obvious. Whoever is doing this—Tony Liáng’s accomplice—(Mike?)—knew Fawn’s every move; knew she had been close to obtaining the keys and the code. That was why the ransom demand was made now.
Fawn gritted her teeth. She felt absolute rage toward her ex-fiancé. Liáng had exposed him as the killer. He was also a lying bastard. He had lied about his relationship to Elizabeth Courtland and who knows what else.
Still, why were the police so sure Terrence Courtland was the assailant? Had it been her evidence regarding the timing of the phone call on 9/11? Maybe Mike Roberson and Terrence Courtland were both involved with the Asian man? There was still the problem of the connection between the hunt for the Zaile treasure and the serial killings. What could the two possibly have in common? Unless, of course, there was some connection between the male lineage of Osceola and knowledge of the valuable horde. And speaking of male lineage, could there really be some sort of curse?
Ridiculous. The link to the hunt for the Zaile treasure, albeit tenuous, negated the possibility there was a textbook serial killer. The murders were a cover-up, or some deception to advance the search for treasure, or both. As with most motives, she ultimately believed that the why behind the murders would come down to greed.
She felt her hatred toward Mike Roberson crest.
Fawn had fired the gun at Liáng in the creek in self-defense. She had never thought of herself capable of attempting to kill another human without immediate provocation…until now.
CHAPTER 44
They neared Cedar Key at 5:00 that evening. Instinctively, Juan awoke and directed Fawn down a dirt road. He guided her through a series of turns as the road became more rural and the woods increasingly thick.
Fawn’s father pointed to the side where a trailer park suddenly appeared. Ragged trailers of all sizes were staged in the clearing. “I need to stop by my place. If it’s still here.” He aimed Fawn down a dirt road. “Ah, there it is. In the back.”
Fawn drove to the trailer, or more aptly, a camper. It was seated between a larger trailer and a corrugated shed. The grass around it was unkempt, weeds crimped between the rusty wheels.
“That’s yours?” Fawn asked. “You’ve been gone four months and it’s still here?”
“I was paid-up months in advance.”
“Why are we here?”
“I
have a gun inside.”
Juan left the car, laboring to walk now. He trudged behind the trailer for a moment and returned carrying a key before disappearing inside. Minutes later, he returned to the idling car, moving slowly. The short nap had done little to help his fatigue.
Sitting, he withdrew a black revolver: a Smith & Wesson Snubnose. He placed the weapon in his lap and looked at Fawn discouragingly.
“What?” Fawn asked.
“Someone’s been through my place. It’s a mess. The bullets to the gun are gone. I’d hidden it in an air duct. There are only two rounds in the five-round chamber.”
Fawn saw her father’s body go lax. His eyes drooped, and he almost fell into her. Then he caught himself.
“You’re in no condition to do this.”
“I’ll be fine. We have to get there fir–”
“This Wildlife Refuge is open to the public, right?”
He nodded.
“Liáng can’t look for the iron container within the shell mound during daylight hours. He would be seen.”
There was sleepy hesitation. Then her father nodded in agreement.
“Let’s stay here. You get some rest. At dark, we’ll go to the shell mound. Will it be difficult to get inside?”
Again he was slow to respond. “No. There’s a campground inside. Just past the campground, a dirt road leads to the shell mound. After hours, the road is only blocked by a swinging gate. All we’ll need are flashlights, which I have.”
Fawn got her father settled inside. The bed mattress had been ripped with long slashes. She adorned it with a fresh cover sheet and her father fell asleep within minutes, which was remarkable, given the temperature was soaring in the high eighties and the only thing to cool him off was a small fan.
Fawn took the car and left the trailer park. She made several wrong turns, trying to recall the maze of dirt roads, but soon found her way back onto Highway 24 where she headed toward Cedar Key. Not far away, she spotted the sign for the shell mound.
That would be their destination this evening. Now she was going into town to make a phone call.
The two-lane highway was the only road leading in or out of the tiny seaside town. She drove, looking at the small, flat businesses—restaurants, bars, bait shops, and single-story motels—which crowded either side of the road in the hope of spotting a booth or a wall-mounted unit.
The road continued over a series of mostly flat, short bridges which spanned shallow estuaries. The tide was out and a ripe smell arose from the exposed mud. Seabirds and pelicans sat atop old piles as if posing for a “Welcome to Florida” postcard. There was a distinctive comfort about the place, as if you were required by law to have a margarita in your hand upon entering the town limits. Fawn half expected to see Jimmy Buffet sitting on the side of the road, singing “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes.”
In town, Highway 24 turned into D Street. The buildings were coated in easy colors, with no structure higher than two floors. D Street continued several blocks before dead-ending at 1st Street. Fawn turned left, realizing she was running out of land.
She parked in a narrow parking lot. Across, on a strip between an inland channel of water and the Gulf, was a lane with multi-storied bars and restaurants. Fawn walked to the back row of restaurants and looked down over the bulkhead where the shoreline was strewn with large cement blocks, probably to slow erosion. Small seabirds darted back and forth, hopping across the rocks, looking for morsels of food.
She entered the first restaurant and approached the hostess. “Excuse me, my mother is driving up from Miami and I’m supposed to be meeting her for dinner. She was going to hold a table for us. Her name is April Lopez.”
The hostess, a thin, attractive woman with short blonde hair, checked the sheet before her, then smiled politely. “I’m sorry, no one has checked in by that name and we have no reservation under Lopez.”
“Are…are you sure?” Fawn asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t understand.” Fawn feigned concern. “She’s seventy-two years old and I’m worried about her driving alone.”
“Have you tried calling her?” the hostess suggested.
“My phone’s dead, and my charger is back at the hotel.” Fawn turned slowly toward the door as if indecisive about what to do next. “I knew I shouldn’t have let her drive this far.”
“Here,” the hostess offered, reaching into her pocket. “You can use my cell phone.”
“Thank you very much,” Fawn said, taking the phone. She backed into the corner as more patrons entered the restaurant. She withdrew Ralston’s card and dialed his cell phone, but got no answer. She then tried the home number of his sponsor family. Again, the call went unanswered.
She considered leaving a message, but thought better of it. There was no need to upset the people he lived with if they got the message first. She prayed nothing had happened to Ralston. What in the hell had she gotten the young man into?
She decided to call Detective Mayes. She would ask for his help in ensuring Ralston’s safety.
“Mayes,” he answered. The man sounded irritated.
“Detective, this is Fawn Cortez. I need your help.” Fawn spoke low so the hostess would not overhear the conversation.
“Ms. Cortez, I’d like to see you in the police station immediately. I have some questions for you. Tell me where you are, and I’ll send a squad car over.”
“That’s not possible. I’m in…” she paused. “I’m out of the city.”
“You need to return immediately.”
“Why?”
“Ms. Cortez. Do I really need to say why? You’ve been linked to incidents at the Amelia Island Lighthouse and the Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine. Your fingerprints were all over the lighthouse, and your picture was captured by a camera in the fort prior to you defacing the wall. By the way, who is the dark man with dreadlocks? The cameras didn’t pick him up, but the park rangers got a good look at him.”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Fawn stuttered.
Detective Mayes continued. “Not to mention you were present when two of the serial killer’s victims were discovered. And you were close friends with Lisa Fortney, correct?
“Oh, and I just got a report of a boat, and dock, exploding in a channel off the St. Johns. Coincidentally, eyewitnesses saw a woman fitting your description hop a barrier fence at Alpine Groves Park, climb in a boat, and leave in the direction of the creek.”
“I’m not the killer, if that’s what you’re suggesting, Detective.”
“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. But whatever you’re up to, it isn’t Kosher. Tell me where you are, and I’ll have authorities come get you. You’re in deep enough crap already. Don’t compound matters.”
Fawn abruptly hung up. She knew now she could not ask the detective for help. It would only serve to implicate Ralston if she did. With luck, it might all be over in a matter of hours anyway. Once everything came out into the open about her father’s kidnapping, she hoped for leniency.
Fawn deleted the last two numbers dialed on the phone’s keypad.
****
Detective Mayes turned to the technician manning the terminal to the side.
“You get it?”
“Barely. You kept her on just long enough. Give me a minute.”
Mayes strummed his fingers on the desk, staring at the shaggy-haired man typing profusely on the keyboard.
“Drumming your fingers doesn’t make me work any faster,” the man remarked. His eyes never left the screen.
A uniformed clerk entered the room and tossed a file on Mayes’ desk. “You asked for any suspicious activity in the locale of where that explosion occurred in the creek. Look at this.”
Mayes opened the imaged copy of a report for a stolen 1984 Dodge Daytona.
&nbs
p; “Classy ride,” Mayes smirked. “Someone needed quick transportation.”
“Got it,” the man to the side said. “She called from Cedar Key.”
****
Fawn woke her father at 8:30 p.m. She had purchased snacks and water in town and he ate heartily. The three hours of sleep and nourishment provided much-needed energy.
At 9 p.m., with two flashlights and the revolver, they took Highway 24 south. Juan Velarde Cortez insisted on driving as darkness settled over the coastline. A short time later, they arrived at the sign Fawn had seen earlier: Shell Mound.
They turned right on County Road 347. Several miles down, they saw the lights from scattered homes and a restaurant. On the left, another sign indicated that the shell mound was on County Road 326. The road, with broad, clear shoulders on either side, led them west through thick woods for several miles. Without headlights, they would have been plunged in absolute blackness. There were no signs of human life.
Lights from a campground on the right broke the night, and a structure came into view. Like her father’s trailer park, the campground was sparsely populated. Light shone through windows, but there was no movement.
Ahead, a sign read, Lower Suwannee National Wildlife Refuge. The asphalt road ended at the closed gate. The area beyond led into covered woods engulfed in darkness.
Her father cut the headlights and pulled the car to the side. He parked on the cleared shoulder close to the tree line, hiding the vehicle within the shadows.
“We go on foot from here,” he said, tucking the gun into his pants. He grabbed one flashlight; Fawn took the other one.
Passing the gated arm was as easy as walking around it; not exactly high security. Then again, it was not needed. The only thing inside was a dirt road that skirted the base at the northern half of an elevated plateau. The road eventually dead-ended at the waterline, where a dirt parking lot led to several trails up the sloping terrain of the shell mound. At the far end of the parking area, away from the mound, a long, dilapidated, L-shaped pier stretched over the water.
Three Keys to Murder Page 33
