Black River

EIGHTY-FIVE

The dawn was breaking across the vast expanse of coconut palms and live oaks in the Ocala National Forest as O’Brien drove his Jeep down a dirt road that was a little more than a winding path into the forest. “We’re close,” Billie said, looking at the terrain.

“How close?”

“His camp is less than a quarter mile, in a clearing to the right. He’s got a cattle gate across the drive.”

“I’m betting he’s got more than that to stop visitors.”

“You mean booby-traps?”

“Yeah.”

O’Brien parked off the road, behind a canopy of cabbage palms. He opened the glove box, getting a second clip of bullets for his Glock. He looked over at Billie. “I know how you feel about killing. I’m hoping it won’t come to that. You can stay here. Wait for me if you want. I’m bringing Kim back.”

“If he has extra men in his camp, you’ll need me.”

“I have some more hardware in the back. You can pick.”

They got out of the Jeep, O’Brien opening the hatch, lifting a green Army blanket. Under it was a 12-gauge shotgun and a crossbow. He said, “Take your pick.”

Billie reached for the crossbow and a half dozen arrows bound together with one strand of quarter-inch rope tied in a bow for easy removal. O’Brien nodded and said, “You’re predictable. But the shotgun is more effective.”

“It announces its presence.”

“There’s something about the sound of chambering a shell that speaks to a man’s soul. Let’s go.”

They moved through the thick vegetation, keeping noise to a minimum. Red and purple bromeliads grew from tree trunks. Spidery air plants, with sea urchin-like tentacle sprouts, clung from the trees like holiday decorations. A wood stork, it’s wingspan stretching five-feet, flew from a dead branch of a bald cypress tree, uttering a primal call that echoed back to the time of the Jurassic period. Joe Billie looked up and then glanced down, following the giant bird’s shadow across the land. He pointed to something near a tree. “Fresh soil. Let’s take a look.”

They cautiously approached a small rise barely higher than the surrounding area. Animal tracks were all over the earth. A hole had been dug in two places. “Bear tracks,” Billie said stepping closer to the hole. “It’s a shallow grave, and a fresh one. Sean, what color is Kim’s hair.”

“Brown.”

“Then this poor girl is not her. She’s someone else’s daughter.”

O’Brien walked up to the hole, staring down at the partially eaten face of a girl, blonde hair matted and bloodied. He stepped back, eyes searching the setting. “I’m betting Silas Jackson killed and buried her. He’s a serial killer, Joe. Hurry!”

In less than ten minutes, O’Brien and Billie were approaching Silas Jackson’s camp. O’Brien looked at the closed cattle gate. The thick and rusted chain was padlocked. He licked his finger and held it up, glancing at the moving treetops. “You said he has a dog.”

“Pit bull.”

“Let’s stay downwind, moving to the right perimeter of the camp and circling back.”

“Look over there,” Billie said, pointing to the path overgrown with weeds and ferns. He stepped closer, kneeling. He gestured towards some dead fern leaves. “These leaves are the only ones around that are dead. They were placed here. Why?”

“Because there’s something under them. Don’t touch it, Joe.” O’Brien squatted down, slowly lifting up the small branches. He motioned toward a metal cap no wider than a bottle top. It was barely visible in the soil. “Let me see your knife.”

Billie slid a serrated hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. O’Brien began to gently work the blade into the dark soil at an angle about four inches from the metal cap. Clink. O’Brien looked up at Billie and said, “IED. Probably homemade. Could be more around here. Good catch. Keep an eye out for tripwires too.”

They continued moving closer to the camp. O’Brien felt a trickle of sweat roll down the center of his back. His mouth dry, his thoughts on Kim. Please be alive. Within a minute, they could see through the undergrowth into the camp. O’Brien studied it.

Jackson’s pickup truck was closest to the house. It was a ramshackle mixture of cinderblock, siding the steely color of an old barn, tarpaper on one side, metal stovepipe sticking out of a rusted tin roof. Chickens pecked the hard-packed ground. A dozen A-frame wooden structures housed fighting cock roosters. A thick-chested pit bull, leashed to a chain, crawled under the open porch.

O’Brien gestured toward a second pickup parked near what looked like a run-down cabin. “Probably more than just Jackson here today.”

Billie scanned the perimeter and then motioned with the crossbow. “At least one.”

“And he’s walking toward us. Right now we have the advantage of surprise. He’s got a pistol in his belt. Looks like he just woke up, which probably means he’s got a full bladder and is walking over here to the trees to take a piss.”

“What do you want to do?”

“Neutralize his potential.”

Billie said nothing.

O’Brien watched the man. He recognized him as one of the two men he’d sent packing the day he’d laid Jackson out cold in the truck bed. “Joe, move about fifty feet north. Watch out for traps. When he starts to piss, toss a rock to your far left.”

Billie nodded and slipped away into the scrub oaks and palms. O’Brien waited a few seconds. When the man unzipped his pants at the edge of the tree line, O’Brien crept behind him, careful not to enter the clearing.

Joe Billie tossed a fist-sized rock to within ten yards of where the man stood urinating. O’Brien watched the man turn his head, thick brow, shielded eyes searching for the source of the sound. He continued urinating, one hand reaching to his side for the pistol grip. O’Brien took two quick steps, grabbing the man’s right wrist, lurching his arm hard behind his back, up to the shoulder blades. The arm snapped, the noise like a dog cracking a chicken bone. O’Brien delivered a solid blow to the man’s lower jaw, the force breaking the it. The man slumped on his back, urine flowing from his exposed penis like a yellow fountain splashing onto his dirty jeans.

Billie circled back to O’Brien, glanced down at the unconscious man and said, “He smells like cheap wine and meth.” He looked toward the house. “Dog’s out.”

O’Brien watched the pit bull pace twice and sit. The big dog cocked its head and stared in the direction where they hid behind the edge of the trees. O’Brien whispered, “He hasn’t barked yet. Maybe he won’t. Joe, keep an eye out front. If anyone else comes out of the shack, he’s yours. I’m going to approach Jackson’s house from the rear. I know Kim’s in there. But I don’t know what he’s done to her.”