Black River

SEVENTY-FIVE

O’Brien drove fast, following the directions of the GPS coordinates. He entered the phone number that Katie Stuart had given him, the number to art director, Mike Houston. When Houston answered, it was an abrupt and stiff, “Yes.”

“Hi, Mike. It’s been a few weeks. I hear you’re about to wrap Black River.”

“Who’s this?”

“I’m the guy you wanted off the set, Sean O’Brien.”

“How’d you get my number?”

“You stole a valuable Civil War painting that belongs to the widow of the man murdered on your film set. It belongs to Laura Jordan. You decided, instead, to sell it to Frank Sheldon. What’d he pay you with, underage boys?”

“Fuck you!”

“Before you hang up, before I alert the police to your theft, I’m willing to make a very simple deal. I want you to call your pal, Frank Sheldon, or whoever is in charge of the guests’ list and add my name.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Mike, you’re so articulate. Listen carefully. I have the waybill number with a charge receipt in your name. I have the delivery confirmation, and I have the behind-the-scenes video of you doing the deal. You never know when the camera’s rolling because it doesn’t blink. If my name’s not on the guest list, yours will be in the newspapers. I’m sure your one hundred million dollar movie could do without the further negative publicity. See you at the party, pal.” O’Brien disconnected.

“Your destination is ahead on the right.” O’Brien shut off the GPS and proceeded slowly. He was in a heavily wooded, remote section of the county. He turned down a dirt road, and drove another quarter mile, his headlights raking across what appeared to be an old barn on the edge of an overgrown field. He continued driving, looking for cars. Nothing.

After driving for thirty seconds more, he made a U-turn and drove back with his headlights out, steering by the moonlight. When he came to within one hundred yards of the barn he pulled his Jeep off the road, parking in the scrub oak, out of direct sight. O’Brien looked at his phone, the last call to Kim Davis. He placed his phone on vibrate mode and shut the Jeep’s dome light off, reached in the glove box for a flashlight, lifting his Glock from the console. O’Brien stepped out into the night. Cicadas droned in the pines. He heard the cry of a screech owl somewhere in the forest.

O’Brien kept in the underbrush, approaching the barn. He stopped. Listening. Trying to hear through the chanting of crickets and cicadas. He stepped around the perimeter of the old barn, the smell of damp hay and horse manure coming from the cracks and spaces between the weatherbeaten boards. He placed one ear to the boards and listened. He could hear something moving, frenzy, as if an animal was gnawing a bone.

He crept around to the front entrance, Glock in his right hand. O’Brien quietly lifted the unlocked hinged latch. He jerked open the door. Flashlight leveled with the barrel of the Glock. He swept the beam through the dark. Rats scattered. An opossum turned and stared, its snout bloodied. The animal jogged, hiding behind bales of hay.

The body was propped in one corner. A large rat scurried from the dead man’s lap. Paul Wilson. Face bluish. Eyes wide open. A single gunshot to the center of the forehead. Blood dried and dark. Rat tracks through the blood.

O’Brien’s heart hammered. He swept the flashlight beam in every corner of the old barn, rusted farm tools were strewn on the hard-packed dirt floor. A tattered scarecrow, straw protruding from holes in its red flannel wool shirt, sat up and cross-legged against one wall. There was a single horse stall, door open and leaning to one side, long since vacant. But the dried ordor of manure still clung in the airless structure mixing with the slight smell of burnt gunpowder, rat feces and human blood.

Where was James Fairmont? How did he lure Wilson into this place? Where would Fairmont go next?

O’Brien’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He lifted it out. The message was from Alistair Hornsby. Here is the latest image we have. Fairmont is six-two. Fifty eight years old. About one seventy-five. Natural hair color blond. Could be any color. Natural eye color green.

O’Brien looked at the face of James Fairmont. Looked into his eyes. Glanced over at the body of Paul Wilson and looked at the vacant, confused eyes. A man deceived. As Hornsby said: ‘a steer lead to the slaughterhouse.’ O’Brien stared hard at Fairmont’s face and remembered what Nick had said: ‘But when he bought a round of drinks, and started asking me stuff like had I been following the news about the diamond and the Civil War paper? When he asked, ‘was Sean helping the widow of the dead guy find the stolen stuff?’…I said yassas in Greek, which means I’m outta here.’

“What’d the guy look like?” Dave asked.

“About Sean’s height. Probably six-two. Blond fella. Green eyes. Maybe mid-fifties. He looked in good shape for his age.”

O’Brien sent a text to Hornsby: Found Wilson. Dead. You can send your cleaners in. No sign of Fairmont. But I think I know where he’ll go next.

A half hour later, O’Brien pulled his Jeep into the entrance of the Highland Park Fish Camp. He drove down a dirt road, the surface covered with gravel and crushed shells, the moon flashing through the branches of moss-covered live oaks. A plump raccoon waddled across the road. O’Brien drove past trailers and cabins, some with outside lights on. Others dark. The occupants gone to bed early, eager to fish on Lake Woodruff as the sun rose over the St. Johns River in the morning.

O’Brien stopped in front of Joe Billie’s trailer. It was dark, the moonlight bouncing off the silver shell. He didn’t think Billie was home. O’Brien reached in his glove box, ripped a small sheet of paper from a notebook and wrote:

Joe, I may need you and your canoe tomorrow evening. Event involving maiden sail of a large sailing schooner. You have my number, please call for details. Thanks, Sean.

He got out of his Jeep, stepping on dry pine straw leading up to the front door, the deep-throated boom of bullfrogs coming from the river. O’Brien tapped on the door. No sound of movement. No lights. Nothing. He folded the note and wedged it under the door handle. Did Joe even own a phone? He could use the fish camp phone. He didn’t know if Billie would see it, but O’Brien had a gut feeling in his gut that he would need him.

O’Brien drove the back roads returning to Ponce Marina. He wanted to think, to plan. He had to trap one of Britain’s best agents and had to do it quickly. Johnathon Fairmont was still in the area. Why? What’s keeping him here? O’Brien called Dave Collins. “Paul Wilson’s dead.”

“I suspected as much. Where?”

“The body’s stashed in an old barn a couple of miles north of State Road 19. I let Hornsby know that he can send in the cleaners. I’m heading back to the marina.”

“I’m sure Fairmont left nothing behind.”

“Only a string of bodies.”

“Dave, the only reason that Fairmont is still in the area has to be tied to Sheldon. Why doesn’t Fairmont take the Civil War contract, the diamond, and leave? I’m betting two reasons: one is he doesn’t want to be carrying them…even in the cargo hull of a plane. And the second is Frank Sheldon. Sheldon was one of the few billionaires who could match resources and assets with the Queen of England in maybe the most expensive auction in the history of the world.”

“So, after a fresh kill, where is the hunter tonight?”

“The bigger question is where will he be tomorrow night when Sheldon throws a bon voyage party before setting sail for England?”