Black River

SEVENTY-SIX

Kim Davis tallied the final receipts from the dinner shift at the Tiki Bar, bagged the money, filled out bank deposit slips, locking everything in the office safe before grabbing her purse on the way out the door. She still wasn’t used to the extra weight the .22 caliber pistol added to her purse. She smiled at Hugh Paulsen, the second-shift manager, ruddy face, Australian accent, wearing a white Panama hat. She said, “I hope you have a good crowd. Is Sammy playing later on?”

“No. It’ll be a new crooner. Lad’s name is Colin Lafferty. He’s a cross between folk and country rock. Talented fella he is.”

“I hope he packs the house.”

“You off tomorrow, Kim?”

“Oh yes. Tomorrow and the next day. Almost a mini-vacation.”

“Got plans, do you?”

“Sleep.” She smiled and walked out into the warm afternoon air. She crossed the parking lot to the left, boats bobbing across the marina, the red brick lighthouse standing in the distance high above the tree line. Kim breathed deeply, the smell of the ocean and jasmine in the soft breeze.

O’Brien moved fast down L Dock, glancing at his watch. Frank Sheldon would be doing a ceremonial sail with America II and invited guests in three hours. As he walked through the Tiki Bar, two black leather clad bikers took their seats at the bar, a family of tourists, chattering and sunburnt after a half-day on a commercial fishing boat, found seats at two of the wooden tables that were previously used as massive spools for electrical wire. A Buffett song played from the speakers.

O’Brien spotted the manager and asked, “Is Kim still here?”

“No, she left a few minutes ago. Said she’s going home to sleep. She’s got the next couple of days off. You might try her phone.”

Her car sat alone. Parked near the dumpsters at the farthest end of the lot. She heard a dog barking in the distance, the sound of a siren far away toward Daytona Beach. She reached into her purse, finding her keys, touching the pistol, pressing the unlock button. Her parking lights flashed once as the doors unlocked. Her shoulders and feet were sore and she longed for a half hour under a hot shower.

She thought about Sean O’Brien. Thought about calling him just to hear his voice. She’d watched the news bulletins flashing across the TV screens in the Tiki Bar. Why was it all happening…and now? So many years after the Civil War. Where are you right now, Sean? Why can’t we just see a movie and have dinner? Isn’t that what normal people do? He’s not normal. Never will be. That’s all it is and how it always will be. Accept it, accept the man Sean is…or don’t accept it. Maybe he’d found the painting. Maybe police had found the killer. It all started when the old man came to the Tiki Bar with that picture. She thought about the beautiful woman in the long dress, a rose in her left hand.

Kim reached for her door handle and froze.

It was on front windshield. Against the glass. Propped up and held down by one windshield wiper.

A blood red rose.

“No! Hell no!” she blurted. She set her purse on the hood, reaching for the rose. She ripped up the rose in dozens of pieces, red petals catching the breeze, falling all around her car.

O’Brien stepped out of the screened-in entrance door to the Tiki Bar, turned right and walked quickly toward his Jeep. He could hear some of the customers clinking beer mugs and singing the lyrics to Margaretville.

He didn’t see Kim’s car in the immediate vicinity. He wished she’d been in the Tiki Bar so he could have spoken to her, to touch base, even for a minute, before he began the hunt for the rogue British agent, James Fairmont. O’Brien unlocked the door to his Jeep and hit the button to Kim’s phone. It began ringing.

Kim could smell the residue from the rose petals on her fingers. Her phone rang inside her purse on the hood of her car. As she reached for the purse, she thought she heard something. She never saw the man. Never saw him come from behind the dumpsters. He approached her back. The barrel of a pistol shoved into her ribs. His other hand gripping her left shoulder. He said, “Show some respect! You’re tearing up a gift I gave you. Ripping the Confederate rose to shreds. Where’s your manners, woman? Get in the truck!”

Silas Jackson’s breath reeked of cigar, marijuana and whiskey. She looked at her purse on the hood of her car. Less than three feet away. If felt like three miles. The ringing of her phone stopped.

He pulled her. “Remember me? I sure remember you. Been thinking about you. Get in my truck.”

“Let me go! Just end it now. We both walk away. I won’t tell anyone.”

He laughed. “Who you gonna tell? Your boyfriend, Sean O’Brien? That boy got a hard lesson coming. He ain’t taking care of a fine filly like you, is he?”

“He just called. We have a date. I’m just running home to freshen up.”

“That’s bullshit. You’re low priority to O’Brien, and you know it. I’m gonna compensate. A good lookin’ woman like you needs attention. No, you require it or you’ll rust inside.” Jackson slammed her car door. “We’ll bring your pocketbook, darlin’. To leave it here would let your boyfriend know you’ve been taken. No woman ever leaves her purse. It’s genetically impossible.” He grabbed her purse, still holding the gun to her ribcage. “Let’s walk to my truck.”

He opened the driver’s side door on the truck, pushing her onto the seat. “Slide over, unless you want to sit next to me.” He grinned. Kim slid to the far side of the seat. He set the purse in the center between them and started the truck, backing out, the date palms and Australian Pines casting long shadows across the parking lot.

A bread delivery truck pulled into the lot. Kim grabbed her purse, reaching inside. She pull out the .22, pointing the barrel at Jackson’s head

Was the safety on? Pull the trigger. Nothing. Jackson’s eyes were wide, cruel. His mouth forming a sneer. He grabbed the short gun barrel, twisting. He backhanded Kim hard in her lower left jaw. Her head slammed against the window. She saw the glint of the lighthouse in the horizon, saw the stars the night she and Sean slept under them on his boat Jupiter, anchored in a remote cove near Key Largo. Blood filled her mouth. A tooth loose.

Then darkness faded over the marina, and Kim felt herself slipping into the black of a deep and dark ocean.

O’Brien backed out of the parking spot. He used the phone’s Bluetooth connection to follow the coordinates to the Jacksonville Landing. When he glanced up, at the far end of the parking lot more than one hundred yards away, he caught a glimpse of a truck pulling out of the lot. The driver barely tapped the brakes as he left the marina, pulling onto the road. From the distance, O’Brien thought one of the brake lights weren’t working. That last time I saw that was…was on the truck driven by Silas Jackson.

O’Brien dialed Kim’s number. “Hi, you’ve reached Kim. I can’t come to my phone. You know what to do at the beep.”

“Kim, it’s Sean. Call me as soon as you get this. I need to—”

Make a legal U-turn on Ponce Inlet Road,” the voice-activated GPS said. “Proceed toward Highway Four.”