Black River

SIXTY-EIGHT

O’Brien walked from the marina to Ponce Lighthouse. He stood in the dark near the base of the lighthouse, the breakers rolling beyond high sandy dunes covered in sea oats and hibiscus. The beam of circling light raked across the murky back of the Atlantic Ocean. He glanced up to the top of the lighthouse, a curved moon perched high in the inky sky. And he listened for the sound of an approaching car.

Gus Louden was more than twenty minutes late.

Who was Silas Jackson? Antisocial. Delusional. A psychopath. Maybe he’d keep his distance from Kim. Maybe not. Was he Louden’s son? Louden didn’t deny it. If so, would the discovery of the painting mean something beyond proving Gus Louden’s great, great grandfather died in battle? If Jackson stole the painting from the film set, was it hanging somewhere in his house?

O’Brien might not know who Silas Jackson was, but he did know Jackson didn’t murder Jack Jordan. The proof was in the slow-motion video. Did Cory Nelson steal the diamond from Jack Jordan after he shot and killed him? All the attention on the film set would have been focused on where Jordan fell to the ground, giving Nelson time and opportunity to break into Jordan’s van. But there was no evidence of a break-in. Why?

Headlights. Moving over the tops of Australian pines bordering the road. A few seconds later, a car turned onto the lot, the driver parking under a security light pole. When he opened the car door, O’Brien could see there were no other passengers visible. Was Jackson crouched in the backseat, finger on a trigger? Gus Louden stepped outside his car, locking the door. He stood near the streetlamp, looking. Waiting. A slight mist drifted under the light. O’Brien approached, keeping Louden between himself and the car.

Louden said, “Sorry, I’m running late. There’s evening road construction south of Jacksonville.

O’Brien said nothing, stepping to within four feet of Louden. “Is Silas Jackson your son?”

“Yes. He hasn’t communicated with his family in seven years. Where is he?”

“Why the charade with the painting? Why didn’t you just hire a PI who specializes in missing persons?”

“I did hire you to find the painting. I didn’t expect you to find Silas, too. I’d hoped that you might, but I wasn’t counting on it. How did you know he is my son?”

“Hold both of your hands out, palms down.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

Lowden slowly extended his arms, turning his palms down. O’Brien could see the dime-sized age spots on the back of Louden’s hands. And he could see the fingernails.

“You and your son share unique physical characteristics. Your hands are much the same. And the cuticles on your fingernails look like half-moons.”

“Where’d you develop your powers of observation, or were you born with the gift?” He lowered his arms.

“Listen to me, Gus. My patience is running thin with you. Your son is stalking a woman I care about. He had a loud argument with Jack Jordan, the man murdered on the film set. And two other people that were connected to a Civil War document that was stolen are dead. Silas Jackson, if that’s his real name, is linked to this. He lives in an unreal world of the 1860s. You tell me what the deal is between you two and why you hired me to find the painting.”

“First, I’m deeply sorry that you think I deceived you. That wasn’t my intention. His real name is Silas. He goes by the last name Jackson because of his admiration for Confederate General Stonewall Jackson. When Silas was a child, no more than four or five, he saw an old photo of my great, great grandfather — the man who was married to the woman in the painting. Silas heard stories about Henry Hopkins, the good and the bad. Somehow, the bad made a strong and lasting impression on him. He wanted to prove his relative was not a coward, but there was no real proof. Silas began studying the Civil War. But he didn’t stop there. He studied all things military. The great armies and the men who led them — Charlemagne, Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, and others.”

“What’s the game? You hire me to find a lost painting. But you’re really looking for a lost son. Answer my question.”

“Please…I’m trying to give you information so you’ll know what you’re up against.”

“Up against? I’m only in this position because I agreed to help you.”

“And I thank you. Silas has been institutionalized more than once. He’s had the care, or at least the clinical evaluation of top psychologists. He never smiled much as a child. All the experts tell me he has brilliant mind, but a mind that’s without a conscience. He believes he’s some kind of warrior, the kind that made up one of the most ferocious fighters in the world — the Spartans. One story that he embodied was that of a Spartan named Aristodemus. He was a warrior who was falsely labeled a coward. But in the end, he proved to be one of the most brave and brutal fighters in the history of Sparta. I think, somewhere in Silas’ mind, he believes his ancestor, Henry Hopkins was similar to Aristodemus — a soldier labeled as a coward when in reality he was the exact opposite.”

“Reality is an abstract world for your son.”

“Where is he?”

“Ocala National Forest. That’s where I left him. I left him with a warning to leave my friend alone. He met her on a film set and has some fantasy that she’s the woman in the painting you hired me to find. Why would he have those fantasies?”

“He’s always had an unrealistic expectation about finding the perfect southern lady — refined, educated, beautiful, perhaps a touch of nobility in her lineage. Although, I’m sure he never saw that painting as a child, and would have no idea the woman in the painting was related to him — she certainly portrayed the image of his make-believe world. As a teenager, he rarely had a girlfriend for more than a few days. Later, when he did find a woman that seemed to tolerate his fictional idea, he beat her. She got a restraining order, but Silas can’t be restrained. Her family up and moved. It was so fast it was as if they were in a witness relocation program.”

“Why did you think if I found the painting I might find Silas?”

“Because of his fascination with Civil War things. As a re-enactor, I knew he read all the Civil War magazines and blogs. If you found the painting, I was going to take a picture of it, write an historical description. Make it public, especially in the places he might look. This would prove that his ancestor, Henry Hopkins, wasn’t a coward, but rather a soldier who died a noble death in combat. Somewhere in the back of my mind, in the place I harbor hope, I wanted to see if that would release the pressure valve on Silas’ anger, meaning any burden of proof about his ancestor was no longer his to show. You found my son. Even though you weren’t looking for him. And I thank you for that. If you want to walk away from trying to track down the painting, I understand.”

O’Brien said nothing, looking up in the sky as a bat flew through the moonlight.

Louden said, “I had heard rumors that Silas was running some clandestine dissident paramilitary outfit. I know my son and what he’s capable of doing — of destroying. Unless he’s contained with medication or locked away, I’m afraid he will do something that could hurt a lot of people — a modern day Picket’s charge against the government. If the painting is found, that alone might be enough to curb his drive, his personal need for proving he isn’t a coward. Will you continue searching for the painting? I’m deeply sorry if you believe I deceived you. It wasn’t my intention.” O’Brien could see Louden’s eyes watering.

“I made a commitment to find it for you. But you need to know this: the unearthing of the painting could lead to the burial of your son. Is that something you want to risk?”

“Sometimes we have to make unbearable choices in life. This is one of those times.”

“I have an idea where the painting might be?”

“Where?”

“At this point, the less you know, the better. If I’m right, you will know.” O’Brien turned and left the lighthouse parking lot, left the tearful old man with a lost son fighting a lost cause and inner demons. O’Brien walked north on the beach, the breakers crashing on the hard sand, an angry surf frothing in the milky glow of the moon, the moving beam from the lighthouse devoured by a vast black sea.