A False Dawn so-1

by Tom Lowe

  I took the large steel hook and pushed it in the center of the bug, cracking and breaking through the shiny metal like opening a tin can. I cast the line as hard as I could. The bug, with the hook and line attached to it, formed a high arch before plunging into the bay. It made a splash like a baseball hitting the water. I watched the ripples until they panned out, lost definition, and joined the rising tide coming toward me.

  THIRTY-NINE

  I hoped the gnawing in my gut would subside if I actually ate lunch. At the tiki bar, I ordered a blackened grouper sandwich. Kim brought my order, set the food down, and stared at me. “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m just a little nervous because you haven’t eaten here in a while. I just wanted to make sure your sandwich is okay before I serve the table behind you. Corona?”

  I nodded and took a bite. She opened a longneck Corona with specks of ice sliding down the sides of the bottle. “Enjoy, handsome.”

  “Kim.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Food’s great.”

  She smiled and left to wait a table. I heard the sound of a motorcycle entering the parking lot. Within a few seconds, Nick pulled into his parking spot in the grass, killed the engine, and got off his bike. He glanced toward the tiki bar, saw me, and shook his head in a look somewhere between a grin and a grimace. He walked up to the bar and flopped down on one of the barstools.

  “Sean, you’re not gonna freakin’ believe where I’ve been.”

  “Try me.”

  Kim came around the bar, saw Nick and said, “The prodigal mariner. Your pal here, O’Brien, has been pacing the restaurant trying to figure out if Martians captured you. Whatcha drinking, Nicky?”

  “Bud.”

  Kim opened a bottle of Budweiser and pushed it in front of Nick. He took a quick sip, scratched at the stubble on his chin and shook his head in a hound dog kind of resignation. “Man,” he began, “I go to get you outta jail and I go to jail.”

  “What?”

  “This cop, I swear he musta been waitin’ for me. I get on my bike to go bail you out. I go about a half mile down the road, and all these blue lights start flashing. This cop pulls me over. Says my taillight is burned out. I say, no problem, thank you. I’ll get it fixed. He asks me if I’ve been drinkin.’ I told him only two beers. Then he tells me to touch my nose with this finger…then this finger. I do okay, but the cop, the same cop on your boat with onion head, he said I’m under arrest for DUI. I ask if he’s kidding me. The next thing I know is I’m being handcuffed, read my rights, put in the back of the police car, and taken to the jail. They put me in a big cell with lots of people who were really drunk. The place smelled like shit, man. Vomit on the floor. Blood on shirts from fights. And there I sit. No phone. No lawyer. No nothin’. I couldn’t even tell you where I was, and I was probably not far from you. Come mornin,’ I explain to the judge, dude called Judge Pappas, what went down. ‘Cause they didn’t get a breath test, brother Pappas threw it out.” Nick drained the can and got Kim’s attention. “I’ll have what Sean has. But bring me a hamburger instead of the fish.”

  “Okay, Nicky.”

  “Sean, what the hell’s going on? These cops really think you’re goin’ around knockin’ off farm girls?”

  “Women who are held against their will, sexually exploited and sometimes killed. I have a problem with that. And onion head, as you call him, has a problem with me.”

  “I say we go rearrange his face, ‘cause now he’s really pissin’ me off.”

  “His fall is coming. I’m going to do everything I can to make it happen before any more women are killed.”

  “He’s the killer?”

  “Don’t think so. Someone more cunning, smarter than Slater, is involved. Slater’s role is probably PR.” I finished my beer and watched a seagull battle a blackbird for a piece of shrimp that had fallen from the table a teenager was busing.

  “Nick, I found a bug on Jupiter, hidden in the smoke detector.”

  Kim brought Nick’s food. He attacked it, taking two bites in a row out of the hamburger. Chewing, he managed to say, “What? Somebody spying on you? Listen to everything we talk about?”

  “You got it.”

  “Everything? Even about women?”

  “Probably.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Somebody really wants to either pin all or some of this on me, or they think I know a lot more than I do. Either way, I sent them a message.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought they’d picked you up. Maybe holding you against your will.”

  “I was in jail. That’s against my will.”

  “I know, but I thought it might be something worse.”

  “What’s worse than being sober and spending a night with a dozen drunks vomiting on themselves? I coulda caught some disease in that place.”

  “I don’t know how deep and far this thing is. I have a hunch there’s sexual slavery here. There could be a lot of people involved at different levels. Underage women from anywhere in the world, forced to become prostitutes. Their Johns are probably the people who bring or import them into the country. These girls are scared kids with nowhere to go. The customer base probably includes some pillars in their respective communities. Maybe a few politicians, cops, churchgoers, men used to buying whatever they want: teenage girls, kinky sex, threesomes, toss a lawyer in because they’re always involved in some level of corruption, and there you have a lot of powerful reasons for secrecy.”

  Nick shook his head and ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. He sipped his beer, searching for words. “What’d we do?”

  “You keep catching the big fish in the sea. I’ll try to catch the land sharks.”

  “Man, I know I’m not a cop. I know you have all the professional training, but I’m strong, fast, don’t take no shit from nobody. You need me, Sean.”

  “I need you to stay alive. To go fishing with me. To tell me about the Greek Islands and why I need to live the rest of my life there.”

  Nick started to protest as my cell rang. It was Leslie. I thought she was calling to either cancel the dinner or give me directions to her place.

  “Hi,” I said on the second ring. “I forget to ask you what kind of wine you like. I’ll pick up a bottle.”

  “Sean,” her tone was serious. “I got some early results on the toothpick. Jonathan, in the lab, busted his butt to get it done fast for us. No rush charges.”

  “What do you have?”

  “DNA on the toothpick matches the DNA under the fingernail of your victim.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure. We’ll run the tests again, but it looks like Silas Davis, the jerk who tossed the toothpick in your face, beat up the face of your victim. I’d say you found the killer. Congratulations.”

  FORTY

  It was a couple of hours before sunset, and I jogged toward the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse. I ran past tidal flats, dotted with small mangrove islands, past shallow pockets of brackish water, much of it no more than a foot deep at low tide. As my feet pounded the bike path, I could see Silas Davis’ smirking face, a chewed toothpick in the corner of his mocking mouth, the smell of unwashed scalp, the odor of sweat and reefer clinging to dreadlocks like compost. Now I knew his skin cells were under the dead girl’s fingernail. I ran harder.

  A dozen cars were in the Ponce Inlet Lighthouse parking lot. Tourists snapped digital souvenirs of the old brick lighthouse that rises more the 175 feet above the surrounding land. I cut through the parking lot and jogged on the beach, making my way back to the marina.

  Except for the gentle roll of breakers, it was almost still and flat. I slipped off my sneakers, socks. T-shirt and ran into the water. It was warm, and the water seemed to embrace every pore on my skin. I dove beneath a wave and swam underwater a half minute, feeling the coolness in the water the deeper I went. When my hand touched the sandy bottom, I headed back for the sun. Breaking through the su
rface, I inhaled a chest full of air and floated on my back.

  I could only hear my breathing and the distance sound of the surf. I closed my eyes and simply listened. A laughing gull called out. A small fish broke the surface near me. Beyond that, nothing. I laid my head further back in the warm water, allowing it to cover my ears. Even the sound of a gull faded away.

  “Sean, find your peace…” It was Sherri’s voice. It came from the deepest reaches of the ocean. Soft, distant and loving. Was it spoken between levels of my own consciousness, or did I really hear something? I opened my eyes and watched the lavender sky fill with warm hues of straw-tinted clouds.

  I hadn’t been out to sea since I had released Sherri’s ashes. Now I floated alone on a desolate copper ocean. And I deeply missed my wife. I lifted my left hand and let the water run out of my palm. Somewhere in there, I thought, were traces of Sherri. Somewhere in there were traces of me.

  I swam slowly to the shore. I could tell the tide was rising, pushing the surf further up the beach. I got my things and started across the sand to the path bordered by sea grape trees. I heard a wave crash, and I had an urge to turn and look at the ocean one last time. But instead, I walked toward the setting sun and followed long shadows all the way back to Jupiter.

  As I shaved and showered, I thought of what lay ahead. I was going out, or staying in, with a woman. The first since Sherri’s death. My emotions were like a tossed salad, lots of pieces in one ceramic bowl with a hairline crack in the center. I was starting with a woman who was in the same line of work that I’d left, sworn off.

  For the first time in a long time, I made a conscious effort to think about what I’d wear. If clothes make the man, my choices on Jupiter were limited. I dressed in fresh jeans, polo shirt, and boat shoes without socks. Then I picked up a bottle of cabernet from Jupiter’s vast collection and headed out. I stood in the cockpit, locked the doors, set the paper-clip alarm, and suddenly sensed my own insecurity. I felt like a kid going on a first date. Maybe this was what I’m supposed to expect. Since Sherri’s death, I’d never rehearsed this moment.

  Then why did I feel bad by trying to feel good? I started down the dock wondering if I’d do well with the meaningless chatter that dating people often spew like bounced spam. I didn’t want to go there, but I didn’t want to stay in emotional isolation, either. I liked Leslie. Liked her smile, her head, and her laugh. And I liked her body.

  One foot in front of the other, I thought. But I didn’t know if I was on the right path.

  FORTY-ONE

  When Leslie opened her front door, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. She looked stunning in a natural way. Her long brown hair was down, very little make-up, the skin on her face radiating a healthy glow, her eyes dancing in the light. She wore black designer jeans, three-quarter length that fit her like paint.

  “Hi,” I said. Nice open pal.

  “Come in,” she said, beaming.

  “Hope you like this. The cab ought to go well with the steaks.”

  She took the bottle and glanced at the label. “Perfect. Let’s open it. It can catch its breath, and then we’ll have a glass.”

  Her home was small, but decorated in bright tones. Lots of green plants and furniture that Hemingway might have brought home from Burma or Africa. It had the look of an Asian-African fusion of the arts.

  I said, “Looks like you have the Far East and the Dark Continent well represented. Sort of feel like I’m on safari here.”

  “That’s the idea. I love Africa. Or maybe I love the idea of Africa since I haven’t been there. Friends who have been there told me you feel it’s where life on the planet began. I’d like to touch the soil. There’s something very old and earthy about the land.”

  “I felt that way in Texas trying to drive across it.”

  She smiled. “Never been to Texas. Think I’d like to see Africa first.”

  “I’d like to start in Ireland. Begin my trip in a pub, work my way over to Africa.”

  “You may not ever make it out of the pub.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  She laughed and stepped around the kitchen counter, handing me a corkscrew. “If you do the honors, I’ll finish the salad. We can toast Ireland and Kenya and then put the steaks on the grill.”

  I poured the wine, handed her a glass, and said, “To the Dark Continent and to the place that makes the darkest beer, Dublin.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring the wine’s aftertaste for a moment. “Very nice.”

  Her lips were full, wet with the taste of wine. She simply looked at me, waiting for me to respond, a subtle coyness in her expression

  “Glad you like it,” I finally said. Dumb. “What can I do to help?”

  “Salad’s made. Steaks have been marinating in the fridge. I started the grill when I heard you drive up. Potatoes are in the oven.” She opened the refrigerator, took the steaks out, and removed the foil from the top of the glass dish. “Let’s go tell stories around the fire.”

  “After you.”

  The outdoor table was set with cutlery and two candles burning in the center of it all. Nice touch. I sipped my wine and watched Leslie turn the steaks on the grill. She was a pro, working the meat just close enough to the flames to sear it, but not scorch it.

  “I can tell you’ve done this.”

  “I like to cook, especially steaks. How do you like yours?”

  “Medium.”

  “Me, too. Used to like them with a cool center. Then along came mad cow and I went to medium.”

  “Those cows weren’t mad, just misunderstood.”

  Leslie laughed. Her smile was as warm as the fire. She sipped her wine, the flames playing in her eyes. She said, “I cook with hickory and mesquite.”

  “You sure you’ve never been to Texas?”

  “Positive.”

  “That’s where mesquite began.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Cattle coming up from Mexico ate the mesquite bushes. They couldn’t completely digest all the seeds, so on cattle drives across Texas, the seeds were scattered. Fertilized at the same time, too.”

  Leslie made a puckering motion with her mouth and cut her eyes up to me. “So that’s where mesquite gets its rich flavor. Comes from a long line of cow pies across Texas, or is this a little bit of O’Brien bullshit?”

  “That’s where it began, in bullshit, but I’m sure today’s mesquite harvest is a few generations removed.”

  “You’re quite the historian.”

  “I’m full of needless information.”

  “Watch the steaks, I’ll get the plates.”

  Even though the steaks didn’t need turning, I yielded to the call of a hundred thousand year old carnivore gene, speared the meat, and flipped the steaks.

  We refilled wine glasses and ate slowly, tasting, talking and laughing. The more I got to know Leslie, the more I liked her. She told me about her childhood, the fights her mother and father had, especially as she was in her early teens. The battles escalated to the point that she saw her father draw back his fist to hit her mother, stopping before he did, but more angry with himself than her. The next day, when Leslie got home from school, she found a note on the kitchen counter. It was a two-sentence goodbye he had written to Leslie’s mother. Two years later her father had remarried and moved to Seattle, completely severing contact with Leslie.

  She said, “Maybe it’s why I got into criminal investigation. Learn how to track down my father to ask him why he never called me. Not even on my birthdays. Then I got to the point where I didn’t care anymore.” She sipped the wine, her voice disconnected, like it came from a documentary film flickering against her heart. “At least he’s alive. When you told me the other day that your father had been murdered, I could feel your pain.”

  I was silent.

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “On routine patrol, he radioed in that he’d pulled over a car with a burned out taillight. The driver opened f
ire on my father. Dad was shot in the stomach. He died trying to crawl back to the car to call for help.”

  “I’m so sorry. Was the perp caught?”

  “He’s doing life at Starke.”

  “Why’d he shoot? Couldn’t have been the taillight.”

  “Investigators told my mother they found drugs, cocaine, and about a grand in loose bills near my father’s body. Press had a field day. The next thing we knew is that people were not quite so sorry that a cop was killed in what some believed was a drug deal gone bad. Many officers in his department didn’t attend his funeral.”

  “Dear God…and your mother was suffering from depression, and you became her caregiver. Your childhood—”

  “More wine,” I said, interrupting her.

  She sipped the remaining bit of wine from her glass, closed her eyes for a long moment, and then looked straight into my eyes and said, “Sean, stay the night.”

  FORTY-TWO

  I thought about my swim in the ocean earlier in the day. Thought about Sherri’s voice in the soft roll of the breakers. Sean, find your peace.

  Mesquite crackled in the grille. I said to Leslie, “A pop and a hiss, and you thought the mesquite cow pie story was all bull.”

  We both laughed, and she sipped more wine. Then the look on her face was of concern. Compassion. She swirled the wine in her glass, her face filled with thought. “Your childhood was robbed.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Things that happen to us as children, those of a traumatic nature, such as sexual abuse, the suicide of a parent, can be the stuff of nightmares for a long time.”

  “That’s why the Irish invented whiskey.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “About what?”

  “About how all of that tragedy at such a young age can leave scars.”

  “When you bury something, it’s not smart to keep digging it up.”