A False Dawn

SEVENTY-EIGHT

I didn’t expect Santana to answer. Maybe he was watching his caller ID in some international airport. Maybe I’d have a chance to bait him before he stepped on a plane. I had to get it right. Had to play to something he couldn’t get or find for himself.

After one ring, the call cut immediately to a short beep and then into voicemail. I said, “Santana, this is Sean O’Brien. You said the next time we talked the words would be my last on earth. You wanted me to think about what I would say. I know what that is. My last words will be what your father told me about you. You want to hear what Josh Brennen really said about you, about your mother? To hear those words, you have to hear them from me. And, to do that, you have to come find me. If you don’t, I’ll go on television and tell the world why Josh Brennen turned his bastard son away.”

I hung up. Now what? You’ve sent out the invitation, O’Brien, and you’re all alone for the party.

I slipped the Glock in my belt and stepped out on the porch, Max following at my heels. The frogs and cicadas were chanting their nightly sonatas. I placed the Glock on the table next to the large spearhead I’d found. Joe Billie would appreciate it. Maybe it was one of those rare paleo spearheads he mentioned. I sat in the wicker rocker and Max jumped up on my lap. I scratched her head and watched a yellow harvest moon rise above the river in the east. I could hear a coonhound chasing something at least a half mile upriver. The bellowing carried across the water. There is the slight smell of wood smoke from somewhere in the Ocala Forest. Then the wind died, and the night grew darker as a cloud slipped in front of the moon.

I knew it was a night I wouldn’t sleep.

It was after midnight when I took Max outside to let her do her business. We walked around the house. I had the floodlights turned off. The guttural bellow of a bull alligator came up from the river. Although there was no wind, the mosquitoes weren’t biting.

Approaching the porch, I could hear my cell phone ring from the table where I’d left it. I ran to it, lifting it off the table next to the spearhead I’d found. It was Lauren.

“Don’t tell me you’re still at the office,” I said.

“Sean, are you alone?” Lauren sounded out of breath.

“I’m here with my favorite lady, Max.”

“Get out of the house!” she ordered.

“Why?”

“CNN ran a shot of Santana’s photo. A man watching in Daytona Beach recognized the photo and called us. The man works for Hertz. They use GPS to help track cars — lost or stolen. They have a tracker on the car that Santana rented. Hold on Sean. I’m on the other line with Hertz…”

Her breathing was quick. To the person on the other line she said, “What are the coordinates?” There was a pause and Lauren asked me, “Where exactly do you live?”

“St. Johns River Road, off Highway 44.”

“Sean, Santana’s car, a Ford Fusion, is less than five miles from your house.”