Blood of Cain

59

When I opened the door to my Jeep, I took the piece of paper from my pocket. I looked at the number Lois had written on it, and I wondered where in South Carolina this number would lead me. Was it to one of Courtney’s relatives? Her parents? A sister, brother, or grandparent? Maybe it was the number to one of Courtney’s friends.

I sat in the Jeep, closed the door, sealing off most of the outside noise, and I lifted a mobile phone. What would I say to whomever answered? What could I say? It would depend on who answered the phone. I dialed the number.

“Hello.” It was the voice of a woman. A tired voice. A soft voice that, in one word, spoke volumes.

“Hi, is Courtney there?”

Silence.

“Is Courtney home?”

“I’m sorry, but you must have a wrong number. There is no Courtney living here.”

“Do you know Courtney?”

A two second pause. My heart raced. Would she hang up?

“There is no one here by that name. Goodbye—”

“Wait! Please, don’t go. My name’s Sean O’Brien. I’m trying to help Courtney. She’s in a lot of trouble. None of it’s her fault. Do you know where I can—”

“Please, sir, I have to go … I’m sorry.”

Her breath was slightly labored. Emphysema, maybe. She disconnected. The sound of silence crushing. I lowered the phone from my ear and looked at the screen. Who was the person? What’s her relationship to Courtney? Was there a relationship — a connection? I believed there was something — a modulation in her voice gave it away. It was when she said, ‘There is no one here by that name …’

She didn’t answer my question. Didn’t say whether she knew Courtney when I asked her a direct question. Only said there was no one here by that name. I started the Jeep, the voice of the mysterious woman from the phone call echoing in my ears like a troubled whisper imprisoned in my brain and bouncing off the inside of my skull.

When I drove into the Ponce Marina parking lot, the cracking of the oyster shells under my tires popped thoughts that had transported me as far away as South Carolina. I’d considered calling the number again. Would the woman pick up the phone? If so, what could I say differently to try to convince her to speak with me?

Nothing.

Not a damn thing. If I wanted to talk with her, I’d have to find her — have to find her before Senator Logan’s black ops people found her, or before one of Bandini’s hit men tried to put a .22 caliber bullet between Courtney’s striking eyes.

A black Mercedes with windows tinted dark pulled into the space next to my Jeep. I instinctively reached for the Glock wedged on the right side of the seat. My hand rested on the butt of the pistol. I waited for someone to get out. I glanced around the lot. Three cars. Two out-of-state license plates. One local. A TV news truck was pulling into the lot from the far side, closer to the Tiki Bar. The last thing I wanted was to be caught on camera in a possible shootout with whoever was sitting inside the Mercedes.

The car’s driver-side door slowly opened. I saw boat shoes hit the ground. The guy who got out of the car was someone I knew. I felt my pulse slow. I slipped the Glock behind my back, under the shirt, and got out of the Jeep.

It had been a few weeks since I saw the man who parked the Mercedes, but I knew he owned the sixty-foot Hatteras docked next to Jupiter. He was a chiropractor from Orlando. I said, “Hey, Kevin. How are you?”

He turned and grinned. Fiftyish. Cotton hair. Deep tan. Very white teeth. “Sean O’Brien. How the hell are you? Man oh man. Nobody can remember all the names of Republicans who were in the horserace for the nomination, but the voters sure know you. Ever think of running for office?”

I glanced to my far right and could see a TV news crew walking our way. “No, Kevin. Never thought about it. I hear your Hatteras is on the market. I guess you have a serious buyer, right?”

“What? My boat’s not for sale. I haven’t even had Changes in Latitude a full year. Now, ask me in another year and I might sell her. You ready to step up your game — get a bigger boat?” He grinned.

“So you had no marine surveyor on your boat?”

“No, why?”

“Thanks, Kevin. I need to check something.” I turned and ran past the news crew, heading for Jupiter.

“Hey! Wait! Mr. O’Brien! Can we talk with you?” shouted a blonde reporter, her camera-man rolling video of me running by them.