Black River

SEVENTY-SEVEN

From a distance, it resembled a Hollywood premiere. The riverfront in the Jacksonville Landing was filled with a large crowd. America II, the star of the gala evening, was bathed in warm lights. The sailing ship was magnificent, more than one hundred feet in length, its three masts towering in the night sky. Searchlights crisscrossed the dark. Hundreds of spectators stood behind long velvet ropes, anticipating the arrival of the stars from the movie Black River. A visible police contingent stayed close to the stanchions, keeping fans at bay. Security, former Special Ops, wore tuxedoes, black ties, and earpieces in their ears. Pistols under their jackets.

Dozens of news camera operators stood shoulder-to-shoulder on a large, high-rise platform, cameras rolling, a few television reporters doing live shots and interviewing anyone who worked on the movie or had a role in the movie. All the cable news networks were there, the syndicated entertainment shows, their anchors and field reporters awaiting the arrival of the film stars.

The stretch limos began pulling up in a convoy fashion, A-list actors getting out of the limos. Designer gowns. Dazzling jewels. Cameras flashing. Fans squealing and applauding as each celebrity paraded by them. Executive producers, directors, agents and publicists all mingling, doing live interviews and then strolling down the red carpet, boarding the yacht, camera lights popping.

“Is that Matt Damon?” asked one woman, smiling and gently punching her boyfriend in his side. “Get his picture!”

O’Brien stood on an adjacent dock less than one hundred feet away. He watched the parade too. But he wasn’t watching the actors and the glitterati entourage. He was looking for an assassin. The one thing that James Fairmont could not disguise, could not change, was his height. O’Brien scanned the invited guests for men six-two or taller. There were not many.

A dozen Civil War re-enactors, some wearing Confederate uniforms, others in Union attire, the women dressed in period gowns, made their way toward the schooner. They mixed with the multitude, stopping to pose for pictures, arm-and-arm with fans.

O’Brien walked down the steps leading from the dock to the parking lot, blending in with the crowd, spotting security, glancing at every face. Searching for the men tall enough to look him directly in the eye. Through the long burst of applauses, through the screaming fans, through artificial movement of the jet set, O’Brien spotted Frank Sheldon.

Sheldon was dressed in a black tux, salt and pepper hair glimmering under the TV lights. He walked with the director of Black River, two publicists, and two of the film’s executive producers. They stopped and did live interviews on camera.

After the last interview, Sheldon stood behind a podium. He thanked the large throng of people for coming out. He acknowledged and thanked the actors, executive producers, and the producer, director and writer. And he added, “This is a great night, not only for the movie, Black River, which just wrapped and will be premiering during the holidays, but for the city of Jacksonville which is the inaugural homeport for one of the most historically significant sailing schooners ever built. The ship behind us, America II.”

The audience erupted into applause. “The original schooner, as you may know, won the race that was forever to be known as the America’s Cup after her triumphant win against the British in 1850. A decade later, the schooner was commissioned by the Confederacy and used in the Civil War. Tomorrow, this replica will set sail for England and create some history of her own.” More applause. Sheldon smiled and nodded. “Tonight I’m thrilled and honored that some of our country’s greatest filmmakers and storytellers will become part of America II’s story as we sail a short distance down the St. Johns River, returning in a few hours to this very dock. Thank you all. As an investor in Black River, I urge you to see the movie. It’ll be great.”

It was during the glut of camera flashes, the applause, that O’Brien saw a taller man merging within a contiguous montage of people, all invited guests, politicians, movie moguls, but the man was one of the tallest. He had dark hair, parted on the left side, wire-rimmed glasses. O’Brien could tell that the nose and bone structure in the face matched the picture Alistair Hornsby had sent.

O’Brien studied the man’s face and body language for a few more seconds, the easy smile, avoiding handshakes or direct eye contact. Instead, the man’s eyes moved beyond the crowd, circling back to Frank Sheldon as Sheldon and his party walked the red carpet and boarded America II.

O’Brien called Dave Collins and said, “I’ve spotted James Fairmont.”

“Where?”

“At Frank Sheldon’s huge party. It’s a wrap party for the movie Black River and a party to officially launch his schooner. It’s a PR party.”

“Did Fairmont spot you?”

“I don’t think so. He’s carrying a leather satchel. I’m betting a king’s ransom that inside it he has the diamond and the Civil War document. Either Sheldon won the auction, or Fairmont has plans to deliver the goods and then double-cross Sheldon.”

“What if they’ve worked together and Sheldon is delivering the items to Prime Minister Hannes when Sheldon docks at the Port of London.”

“I think I know how we’ll find out?”

“How?”

“Dave, call Hornsby. Give him Sheldon’s cell number. I wrote it down. It’s on that fishing brochure right next to Paul Wilson’s number. I’m sure M16 can tap Sheldon’s mobile phone and listen in, using Sheldon’s phone as a hidden microphone. The voyage down the river and back is scheduled for four hours. I’ll text you when I see Fairmont disappear with Sheldon sometime during the floating party. They’ll probably do the deal in Sheldon’s private captain’s quarters. If we’re lucky, we’ll get it recorded and turn the tables on the blackmailer or blackmailers. The earlier Hornsby can set up things on his end, the better.”

“Be very careful, Sean. Between Sheldon’s formidable security team and what we know Fairmont can do, you’re about to sail down some extremely dangerous waters. There is literally no one on board that can do anything to help you. If they compromise you, you’ll never be seen again and Sheldon will simply deny you were ever on his guest list, much less on his yacht.”

“Watch for my text. I have a feeling it’ll come soon, probably about the time most of his guests have downed their third crystal glass of Dom Perignon. Dave, I’ve tried to reach Kim. She’s not calling or texting.”

“I detect more worry in your voice than I’ve heard in a while.”

“I’m worrying because I spotted a truck at the far end of the marina parking lot. I may have been mistaken, but I thought I noticed that the left brake light wasn’t working.”

“And what would be the significance of that?”

“Silas Jackson drove a pickup truck, and the left brake light was burned out.”

“Oh…I’ll see if I can find her. Nick and I will go to her home if need be.”

“Thank you.” O’Brien disconnected, walked behind a group of studio suits and their wives in designer gowns as they made the way down the red carpet. He glanced up at the full moon rising over the river, wondering if Joe Billie got his note and hoping he would not need Billie’s help.

Kim Davis looked at the moon over the tree line deep in the Ocala National Forest, where Silas Jackson’s hunter camp bathed in the moonlight. As he stopped the truck she said, “You don’t have to do this…to risk your life. You can let me go, I’ll walk back.”

He shut off the truck’s ignition switch, the motor ticking in the dark. He turned to her and said, “Walk back? You’d never make it out of here alive. There’s panthers. Lots of mean damn bears. More poisonous snakes per square foot than any national forest in the country. And then there’s the crazies. The forest folk who live out here. Most ought to be locked up. They drift in with the seasons. Word gets around, they know not to come to my camp. All it took was putting a shrunken head on a bamboo pole next to my flagpole for a couple of weeks. That got their attention.”

Kim pressed against the truck door. “You’re insane.”

He stared at her, the moonlight pouring through the truck’s front windshield. He rolled down his window, a singsong chorus of cicadas reverberated through the woods. “I might be insane, but honey I’m not dumb. Your boyfriend O’Brien is dumb. He came onto my turf and challenged me. He, Miss Kim, drew first blood. It’s in your honor that I protect you. I’d duel to the death if I thought O’Brien would do it honorable and pace twenty-five steps before turning and firing.”

She said nothing, slapping at a mosquito on her arm. “Can you put your window up? Mosquitoes are biting me.”

“That’s because you have a fine bloodline. You’re a reflection of the Old South, you just don’t know it.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I know a lot about you, woman. I know the foods you like to eat. The wine you like to drink. Mostly Cabernet. The kind of coffee you like, Folgers. You still make it the right way, one pot at a time. Not using those little pods. I even know the time of your last menstrual cycle.”

Kim’s eyes opened wider. Her pulse pounded. “It was you! Your freak! Going through my garbage. You’re sick.”

“I’m a trash archeologist. Much of a person’s life, their past, present, and some of their future, can be told in a bag of their trash. Their diets. The meds they’re taking. The money they owe. The cycles of life are in the trash. Week after week. I know what kind of condom your boyfriend O’Brien uses, and I know your cycle is right about now. Your eggs are dropping and you’re ripe for conception.” He reached for her. She raked her fingernails down his arm, opening the truck door and running hard into the forest.