Black River

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O’Brien watched the pickup truck, now about one hundred yards away. He didn’t know if the men in the truck spotted him and Jackson behind the parked Jeep. He quickly lifted the pistol out of the mud and threw it far into the underbrush. He grabbed Jackson by the back of the collar and pushed the muzzle of the Glock against his throat. “Like I said earlier, give me a reason.” He shoved Jackson to the creek, sloshing through ankle-deep water, guiding him behind a clump of cypress trees. “You make a sound and the raccoons will have your scrambled brains for breakfast.”

Jackson grinned. “All I’m gonna say is you’re a dead man. You just don’t know it.”

O’Brien kept the Glock buried next to Jackson’s carotid artery. Within seconds, the black pickup pulled around the Jeep, stopped next to the creek. The men got out. Both armed. One man with a sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun. The other holding a .44 magnum. They walked around the Jeep, cautiously opening both doors. The taller man looked down at the shoe and boot prints in the mud, mumbled something to his friend and started walking toward the creek.

O’Brien pulled Jackson out of the creek, pushing him along the embankment toward Jackson’s truck. When they got next to the truck, O’Brien said, “What size hat is that on your head?”

“What?”

“Hat size. Maybe seven and three-quarters. Give me your hat.”

“You’ll have to take it.”

“Okay.” O’Brien hit Jackson in his lower left jaw, the blow sounding like a carrot snapped in half. Jackson’s hat flew off his head, landing in the truck-bed. His eyes rolled, and he fell backwards. O’Brien quietly lowered the tailgate while holding Jackson in one arm. He rolled Jackson onto the truck-bed, found the keys in his jacket, picked up the Confederate slouch hat, and started the truck, heading back toward the men.

O’Brien sat behind the steering wheel, slouch hat pulled just over his eyebrows. He drove down the creek-bed knowing that in the molted soft light reflecting from the dark, tinted truck windows, it would be difficult for Jackson’s men to get a good look at who was driving. He spotted them standing on the creek bank, necks craned, confused faces.

Both men had their guns lowered, and the one with the pistol had holstered it. The taller of the two sported a full reddish beard. The shorter man, wearing a white tank top and shorts, had the body of a gym rat, steroid — sculpted muscles showing on tattooed, woolly arms. The man scratched his crotch and spat in the flowing water just when O’Brien pulled up and stopped.

As the truck window lowered, the men looked up into the barrel of the Glock. “Throw your guns in the creek!” O’Brien shouted. “Now!” Both men were dumbfounded. They tossed their weapons into the water. O’Brien slid out of the truck and said, “Now, since it’s a beautiful day for a hike, I want you lads to start walking. Wade through the stream. Don’t bother to stop to pick up your guns. They’ll need a thorough drying out and oiling. So let the waters bath them while you go pick blackberries down the muddy road.”

“Where’s Silas?” asked the man taller of the two men.

“Napping.”

“Napping?”

“He dozed off in the truck-bed.”

They glanced into the truck-bed, speechless. “Move!” O’Brien shouted. He’ll just have a slight headache when he wakes up.”

The men waded across the creek, cursing under their breaths, swearing to get even. O’Brien watched them walk more than fifty yards, beyond a bend in the road, out of sight. He knew they’d circle back a different way. He took the hat off his head and tossed it in the truck-bed. One of Jackson’s hands was partially open, resting on his chest. O’Brien looked at the hand, the long fingernails, the large crescent moons at the base of the thumb and each finger. O’Brien had only seen that distinctive anomaly on one other man.

He ran to his Jeep, got inside and spun tires leaving the scene. He looked into his review mirror and saw the two men wading back across the creek. O’Brien dialed Gus Louden’s number. He answered after the seventh ring and said, “Sean, it’s good to hear from you. Did you locate the painting?”

“No, but I found your son.”

There was a long silence. O’Brien could hear Louden breathing harder. A slight rasp in his vocal cords. He said, “Please, tell me more.”

“No. You’re going to tell me more. Get in your car and drive nonstop back to the marina. Meet me at the Ponce Lighthouse at midnight. Come alone.”