Blood of Cain

68

Five hours and seventeen minutes. I looked at my watch as I started to cross the Savannah River. Five hours and seventeen minutes earlier, I’d left Kim’s hospital room and driven nonstop from Ponce Inlet to Augusta, Georgia. Crossing the Savannah River on Highway 25, over the James Jackson Bridge, I felt as if I was crossing a bridge over troubled waters. I’d read somewhere that the Savannah River itself was one of the most toxic rivers in the nation. The bridge spanned the river, connecting Georgia with South Carolina. I was en route to a place called Murphy Village in South Carolina, a few miles north of the Savannah River.

I continued driving up Highway 25, following a printed map in search of the address Dave Collins had given to me. I’d removed the battery and sim cards from my phones. Didn’t use a portable GPS either. Didn’t want to chance an eye in the sky following me. I glanced from the map in my hand to my gas gauge. Nineteen miles until empty.

I pulled off the road and stopped at a Chevron station. I stepped inside to pay the clerk cash before pumping. I bought a large coffee, black, paid and walked back outside. An older model blue pickup truck eased up to the pump opposite the one I was using. A man dressed in faded overalls and a sweat-stained John Deere green cap, got out of the truck. He was at least seventy, lanky, unshaved, face filled with white whiskers. He nodded at me and said, “We sure need some rain. My corn crop won’t make it another three days if we don’t get us a damn good rain.”

“What’s the forecast?”

“Hot, hot, and hotter. Damndest weather in the last few years than anytime I can remember. I ain’t no tree hugger, but I damn sure believe we mucked up stuff so much it’s affected the climate. You work the land, you can tell.” He nodded and started pumping gas into the old truck. He looked back at me. “Where you from?”

“Florida.”

“Ya’ll got hit hard with a freeze last winter. Ruined most of the citrus.”

“You’re right. How far is Murphy Village?”

I saw his right eyebrow rise up. “It’s about ten miles down twenty-five. Can’t miss it. The place is mansions and junkyards. Industrial, residential, and even some agricultural land all rolled into one place.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t want to sound nosey, but why would a fella from Florida want to go there?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

He nodded, glanced at the gasoline pump, and cut his eye back to me. “Lemme give you a little friendly advice. Don’t hire anybody in there to do anything for you. If your car needs fixin,’ go someplace else.”

“Why the caution?”

“That’s the largest population of Irish gypsies in the country. They call themselves travelers, not gypsies, but it’s the same. Every summer the men head out, they travel all over the nation. Some use fake ID’s. Fake license plates on their trucks and cars. They’ll paint your house with watered-down paint. Repave your driveway with materials that don’t last. Fix your roof ‘til the next big cloud-buster. By then, they’re long gone. They’re some of the best con artists anywhere. Smooth talkers. One fella will knock at your door, with a sob story, or a deal that’s too damn good to be true. His partner will be stealing your silver. The elderly, people my age, that’s their prime targets.”

“Sounds like an interesting bunch.”

He finished pumping gas, replaced the nozzle, and said, “Don’t want to mess in your business, I’m just warning you. These people are real damn clannish. They simply don’t talk to outsiders. Won’t answer their doors. It’s trailers and mansions. All of ‘em have paper covering their windows to keep prying eyes out.”

“Thank you.”

He removed his John Deere hat and wiped his rawboned face with a red handkerchief. “Gonna be a scorcher.” Then he got back in his truck and drove away, windows down, a rifle balanced in the gun rack visible through the dirty back window.

There were no posted signs letting me know that I’d entered the town of Murphy Village. It was wasn’t needed. The farmer’s description wasn’t embellished. In truth, he’d restrained his account of what I was now seeing. The homes were a concoction of mansions and trailers tucked behind scrub pines and oaks. English Tudor, Mediterranean, all brick homes, sprouted like misplaced castles on an acreage of spotty lawns, fenced warehouses, cars on blocks, and bent mailboxes with no addresses. Every home had at least one pickup truck in the driveway, front facing the street. License plates not visible. It was a land of contrasts but not contradictions. Ostentatious symbols of wealth infused in a quilt of deficiency, a measurable history of a hardscrabble life.

I saw no signs of life. No moms pushing babies in strollers. No dogs. No one watering dry lawns. Nothing. I did see what appeared to be cream-colored construction paper inside each window in every home facing the street. I looked at the house number Dave had given me and wondered how I’d find a residence in a sprawling neighborhood barren of visible addresses.

I glanced up in my rearview mirror and saw a mail truck coming my way. The postman stopped in front of mailboxes, delivering, and moving on down his route. I pulled to the side of the road and waited. When he stopped at the box behind my Jeep, I got out, and walked to his truck. I offered my most convincing smile said, “You must be clairvoyant or you’ve worked this neighborhood for a long time. I’m having the hardest time finding addresses. Who would have thought that delivering a birthday gift would be such a challenge? I had an easier time finding addresses in Iraq.”

He looked over the top of his bifocals, his round face red from the heat, his walrus moustache damp with perspiration. “You fought in the Gulf War?”

“Yeah, a lifetime ago.”

“Thank you for your service.”

“You’re welcome. How do you deliver the mail out here?”

“Been doin’ it eighteen years now. It’s kind of easy because hardly anybody moves in or out. Same families for years. All Irish. Lots of Callaghan’s and whatnot.”

“Maybe you can help me. I’m trying to deliver a package to eight-ten Murphy Road. I can find the road, but I have no clue which house it is, and I’d hate to not deliver her birthday gift.”

“I didn’t know it was Miss O’Sullivan’s birthday. She’s one of the few people here who I’ve actually gotten to know some. I just delivered the mail to her box. Didn’t notice any cards. Too bad. She’s a nice woman. Sort of a recluse, like all of ‘em. But she always has something pleasant to say if I deliver a larger box to her trailer.”

“Trailer?”

“Yes. She is from an old Irish clan. Some of them in here speak ancient Gaelic and other Irish brogues. I’d heard she lost her only daughter. Murdered. They never caught the killer. News said it might even have been Miss O’Sullivan’s own granddaughter — the daughter of the woman who was killed. I need to get going. I hope you can deliver the present. She strikes me as a woman who hasn’t had much to smile about for a long time.”

“Where’s she live?”

“Oh, you passed it. Back down Murphy, about a half mile on the left. It’s the poorer section, no mansion out front. She lives in a light blue trailer back up in the trees. There is a hand-painted picture of a funny looking bird on her mailbox.” He nodded, took his foot off the brake, and drove down to the next mailbox.

I turned the Jeep around and drove in the direction he’d given me, hoping that Katherine O’Sullivan was home, hoping that what she might say could be the connection to Courtney Burke’s past, and be the bridge over her troubled waters to a better future.