Blood of Cain

2

The image could have been a hallucination. I was that tired, physically and mentally exhausted. I flashed on my high beams. A ground fog was building in the night, and the high beams did nothing to help me see what I believed was a girl walking on the shoulder of the road. Nothing there. Maybe a deer. I stuck my head out the open window of my Jeep driving down County Road 314 through the heart of the Ocala National Forest. Max, my ten-pound dachshund, was curled on the passenger seat, fast asleep. It was near midnight, and I was glad there was no other traffic on what was undoubtedly one of the darkest highways in the nation.

The road twisted through canopies of ancient live oaks, thick branches stretching high over the highway and blocking out what little light was coming from the moon. I'd spent all day sanding and repainting the bottom of Jupiter, my vintage 38-foot Bayliner at Ponce Marina near Daytona Beach. I would have stayed overnight on the boat if it weren't hauled into the yard, propped up with jack-stands and blocks. Tomorrow, Jupiter would take her place back at slip L-17. Now I was heading home to my old house on the St. Johns River.

The image returned, ghostlike through the fog. A young woman, maybe a teenager, definitely walking on the side of the road. She wore jeans and a blue T-shirt, walking slowly, too near the pavement to be safe. Not that it was safe walking down a rural stretch of highway late at night through the heart of a national forest known as much for its body count as its beauty. It was the same forest where convicted serial killer Aileen Wuornos had left some of her victims. And it had a history of murder and bloodshed dating back to the Spaniards slaughter of the native people.

The girl didn’t stop walking when I slowed down and pulled up beside her. Max awoke and stood on her hind legs, bracing to peer out the open window. I asked, “Can I give you a ride to wherever you're going? This is not the safest place in the nation to be taking an evening stroll.”

No response. The girl kept walking, hugging her arms in the humid night air, the chant of cicadas echoing through the dark forest. She swatted a mosquito. I drove slowly, keeping pace with her. “The mosquitoes will eat you alive out here. Look, I'm not trying to do anything but help you.”

Max barked. The girl stopped and turned toward us. She said, “I don't need your help. Please, just go away. Leave me alone, okay?”

She looked at Max and the girl's agitated face softened for a second, a tiny smile at one side of her mouth. She bit her top lip and started walking. I could tell she'd been crying for a while. Eyes swollen, red blotches on her face, hair tangled like she'd been running before walking, running away from something or running to something. Even through the mosquito welts, through the confused and hurt face, she was a pretty young woman. And she was someone who might be zipped into a body bag if she walked this road all night.

The T-shirt had two dark stains across her waist, like she'd wiped blood on her shirt. Something had caused her world to come crashing down, at least from her perspective something bad had happened. Right now the only thing that mattered was her safety. She was somebody's daughter, and she was all alone in a dark and dangerous place where no one should be alone.

I said, “You're hurting Max's feelings.”

She stopped again, looked at us, leaned closer to the window and said, “Excuse me?”

I smiled and Max cocked her head. Then Max did her little half bark. Sort of her way of asking, “What's up?” The girl smiled. It was a natural, beautiful smile. Her eyes, even from the spill light of my dashboard, were mesmerizing. They were wide, the striking look of the irises was even more pronounced because of the dark circles wrapped around the color. They were the shade of golden light through emeralds, and they were very frightened eyes.

She inhaled deeply through her nose, and looked back down the long, dark highway. An owl called out from one of the live oaks, the grunt of bullfrogs coming from the swamp. I could smell smoke from a hunter's camp somewhere in the deep woods. I said, “Please, get in the Jeep. I'll take you into DeLand. It's about twenty miles away. Are you a student at Stetson?”

“I've never been to college. Look, I appreciate your generosity. I can tell you’re a nice guy. But I'm gonna be okay. I just need some space away from people. Your dog's cute.”

“I can understand how you need space, but there are better places to find quiet time. I’m Sean O'Brien. What's your name?”

“Courtney Burke.”

“Nice to meet you Courtney. I live near here in an old house by the river. I've been sanding, painting, and working in a boatyard at Ponce Marina all day. Let me take you into town. There's a Waffle House open all night. Do you need money to catch a bus?”

She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and said, “No thanks.” She coughed, reached into her pocket and removed an asthma inhaler — taking a long hit from it.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, breathing deeply now through her nose, her eyes moist. “Yes.”

“Look, Courtney, I'm too tired to hang out here on a dark road about five miles from where police found a body last month, less than fifty feet off the highway. A runaway teenage girl. She'd been dumped like trash. Now, please, get in the Jeep.”

She leaned closer to the open window and looked at me, studying my face for a long moment, a small gold Celtic cross hanging from her long neck. “You said your name's Sean O'Brien, right?”

“Yes, why?”

“No reason. You lived here all your life?”

“Part of my life. The important part. Why?”

“It's nothing. Look, I …”

Light raked across the left side of her face. I glanced into my rearview mirror and saw headlights approaching. I said, “Car's coming. Step back, I'm pulling off the road.” I turned the Jeep's emergency flashers on and eased off the road directly behind the girl. Within seconds we were passed by a pickup truck. And three seconds later I saw the brake lights pop on.

Not a good sign.