Black River

SIXTY-FIVE

The deep tracks in the mud led O’Brien more than three miles into a forest so thick that the canopies of old oaks kept the midday sunlight from piercing. He drove slowly, windows down, listening, watching. A boisterous throttle of cicadas reverberated all around the Jeep, limbs and brush slapping both side doors, the smell of moss and jasmine on the warm wind. Bald cypress trees with trunks, stretching more than ten feet in thickness, grew in water the color of black ice.

O’Brien started to drive through a wide, shallow creek that flowed slowly across the road, but he stopped. He looked to the far side of the creek. No tire tracks. He turned off the engine, reaching beneath his seat for his Glock. He opened the door, slid the pistol under his belt in the small of his back and stepped up to the edge of the creek. O’Brien studied the flow of the shallow water. Bottom visible. Maybe a foot deep at most.

He followed the current with his eyes, walking downstream. Through the clear water he could see moss scrapped off rocks that had been disheveled by something heavy — something like a truck. O’Brien looked to his right, to the far reaches of the creek. In the speckled light squeezing through the trees, he saw something shiny in the distance — the reflection of sunlight from the chrome door handle on the pickup truck. It was parked in the creek, maybe one hundred yards from where O’Brien stood.

“You lookin’ for somebody?”

O’Brien turned around to see Silas Jackson standing twenty feet away. His blue jeans soaked from the knees down, water trickling from his boots. Jackson wore a Confederate jacket, hanging to his thighs, open at the waist. O’Brien assumed a pistol was under the coat.

Jackson said, “I asked you a question. You lookin’ for me?”

“I’m just curious why a man would park his truck in the middle of a creek.”

“That’s none of your fuckin’ business. You some kind of private investigator or just a crazy man?”

“A little of both.”

“Let’s end the bullshit now, make-believe cop. I saw you tail me from downtown.”

O’Brien stepped a few feet closer to Jackson. “But did you see the man in the BMW following you?”

Jackson raised his eyebrows. “I said end the bullshit.”

“He drove a BMW 328. Gray, like your jacket. I figure someone who can afford a car like that might be in the market for the diamond you stole. Maybe he was tailing you because you didn’t live up to your end of the deal. Holding back and not delivering either the Civil War contract or the diamond.” O’Brien didn’t blink. Staring hard into Jackson’s eyes, looking for any sign of cover or deception.

“You definitely got balls comin’ out here and accusing me of theft.”

“It gets better, Silas, I’m accusing you of murder.”

Jackson said nothing. Eyes scorching.

“You killed a hotel clerk before breaking into Professor Ike Kirby’s room, shooting him, and stealing the Civil War contract.”

Jackson shook his head. “You’re one sick puppy.”

“You couldn’t let that Civil War document become public, could you? That was a sacred, confidential document that was helping to finance a cause you still believe in, right?”

Jackson said nothing. A deer fly orbited his head once before landing on his neck.

O’Brien lowered his voice, just above a whisper. “You know that diamond Jack Jordan found was, of course, Confederate property. And now, all these years later, you could cash it in to buy the manpower and weapons you need to take back the Union — or to split it. The war isn’t over, correct, Silas? Any killing can be justified for the rebirth of the South and the cause all those men gave their lives for, right?”

“You’re fuckin’ right! But you’re not gonna get me to confess to something I didn’t do, although I salute the man who did.”

“Cory Nelson says it was you.”

“Nelson’s a damn liar!”

“He says the plan was he’d take out Jack Jordan — steal the diamond and you’d steal the Civil War contract. Nelson only had to murder one man. You killed two. Where’s the diamond and the contract?” O’Brien stepped closer, staring directly into Jackson eyes, which were black as the water at the base of the giant cypress trees.

Jackson tightened his neck muscles as the deer fly bit into his skin. “I answer to nobody. I knock tyranny on its ass. Whatever it takes. Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s not important. What is important — it’s the decisions you make, Silas, because those decisions have a real bad effect on others. I’m betting you have the diamond and the contract hidden with the painting you stole from the film set.”

“What painting?”

“The one you are infatuated with, the one of the woman painted at the time of the Civil War. You told others you believed the woman in the painting would be reincarnated. And you believe she’s now Kim Davis. You left the Confederate roses on her property.”

Jackson said nothing. Staring, eyes fiery.

“Don’t go near her again.”

“You got a claim on that woman? I doubt it. I’ll ask her sometime.”

“That’d be a bad mistake.”

“Maybe I’m a bad man.” He slapped the deer fly on his neck, crushing it in the palm of his hand, without taking his eyes off of O’Brien. Then he looked down, opening his right hand. Black dirt packed under the long fingernails, bruised and damaged cuticles at the nail base. O’Brien stared at a deer fly wing wedged under Jackson’s fingernail on his index finger.

Jackson licked his thin lips and said, “This here fly is a female. Only the female deer fly drinks blood. The male visits flowers, spreading pollen. The female uses a razor-sharp mouth and jaws to cross-slice the skin, sort of makes a tiny X. When the blood rises to the surface, she puts her face in and drinks her fill. You ever drink blood — the elixir of life? The alchemy between a man and a woman is the continuation of the bloodline. The true scent of a woman, her blood, is the same thing the male deer fly is programmed to do when he enters a flower. Think about that, whoever the fuck you are. You visiting Kim Davis’ flower?” Jackson grinned. “I’m next. I see you don’t rile up too easy. That’ll change soon.”

O’Brien said nothing, waiting for the move.

Jackson sneered. “I don’t like your face. Don’t like your eyes. They’re corrosive like you got acid boiling under your irises. What’s behind those eyes — the face of yours, huh? Before I’m done with you, we’ll carve a big ol’ X between your shoulder blades. Just like the deer fly. We’ll tie you up under a sycamore tree, in front of a mirror me and the boys will hang from a limb. We’ll cut you right around the hairline and then peel the skin off your face. It’s just like skinnin’ a catfish. I need to see what’s behind your lying face.” He used his left hand to lift the dead insect, slowly stretching his left arm. O’Brien cut his eyes up to Jackson, waiting for the split second hint. He didn’t wait long.

Just as Jackson dropped the deer fly to the mud, he used his right hand to reach under his jacket. In that second, O’Brien pulled his Glock, taking one long stride. The barrel pointing straight between Jackson eyes. “Give me another reason!”

Jackson stared at the barrel. No fear. Eyes cool, detached.

O’Brien said, “Use your left hand…very slowly reach under your jacket and lift out whatever you’re packing. Then drop it next to your blood-sucking deer fly and take three steps backward.”

Jackson did as ordered, the .38 dropping in the mud. He looked at O’Brien and said, “You got the wrong man, peckerwood. I didn’t kill that college teacher or the clerk. I came damn close to killing Jack Jordan on account of our heated disagreements about the war and that documentary he was makin,’ but I didn’t do it. Somebody else did. And I’m glad they shot the bastard.”

“Where’s the painting?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you sell it with the diamond and contract?”

“If I had that contract, I’d burn the mother fucker.”

O’Brien heard the rumble of a diesel engine. He looked over Jackson’s shoulder to see a black pickup truck coming down the road, mud flying in the air from the back tires. It was the same truck that met Jackson at the jail complex. Same men in it right down to the tattoo and fur on one beefy arm protruding from the open driver’s side window.

Jackson slowly turned his head, watching the truck approach. As he started to turn back toward O’Brien, he grinned and said, “Don’t know if you believe in providence having any bearing on man’s survival in the cosmos, but your luck just ran out. Whatcha gonna do now, peckerwood?”