Black River

FOURTEEN

After sunrise, Kim Davis slipped on a sweatshirt, pulled up her jeans, then opened her front door to step out onto the porch. She was barefoot, the concrete cool on her soles. She walked toward her mailbox and stopped in her tracks. The mailbox, mounted vertically on a wooden beam, was wide open. Sticking out of the opening was a blood red rose.

Kim lifted the rose out of the box. A note, attached by a white string, was written in what appeared to be font from a manual typewriter. Kim could hear a dog barking from the next street. Her temples were pounding, adrenaline flowing. She glanced around her yard. It was there in the grass. She held her breath for a second.

Footprints.

They were scarcely visible in the wet dew. But the prints were there. Leading from the porch to the far end of her driveway. Kim walked back inside her home, shutting the door with force, locking the bolt lock. She read the note: Dear, Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose has more than a similar scent. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman.

Kim stepped rearward a few feet, her back touching the wall in her living room. She stood there, breathing fast through her nostrils. Light from the sunrise poured through the glass pane window at the top of the door, striking the rose she held in her hand. Kim lowered her eyes, the rose suddenly looked inflamed, as if it was smoldering in her grip. She felt a chill, goose bumps popping up on her arms. For an eerie moment, Kim Davis thought she could see inside the petals, see the molecules moving, the lifeblood of dead soldiers flowing through the deep red petals.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowly releasing the air in her lungs. She whispered. “Focus. I’ve dealt with my share of freaks before…he’s just one more in the lineup. Now it’s time to get the hell out of my life.”

Kim walked into her kitchen, tossed the rose and note on the table, picked up her phone and dialed Sean O’Brien. It went immediately to his voice-mail. At the beep, she said, “Sean, hey, it’s Kim. During the night, I received a special delivery. One single rose with a creepy note delivered to my mailbox. I don’t know for sure who did it. But I have an idea, and it could be related to the Civil War, just like that painting you’re trying to find for the old man. Honest to God, I hate to say this…but deep inside me, my gut is telling me that, somehow, they could be related. Please call me as soon as you get this.”