Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (31 page)

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.

I unlocked the sliding glass door between
Jupiter’s
cockpit and her salon. In thirty seconds, I had music coming from satellite radio tuned to a blues station, Keb Mo singing through the Bose speakers. Then I started searching. Checked every lamp shade. Checked behind the couch. Under the smoke alarm. Worked my way through the galley, the master berths, and the other sleeping areas. Nothing. If there was a bug somewhere on
Jupiter
, it couldn’t be buried in the engine room or the bilge to be effective. It had to be hidden in the open area to pick up conversations.

But where?

I sat on the couch and looked around at everything I’d touched. And I looked at places I hadn’t inspected. I got down on my knees and stared up at the underside of the bar. And there it was, hanging like a barnacle under a dock. I stood and stepped to the bar, bending down to get a better look. It was no larger than a cap from a bottle of beer, but deadly as a cobra within the striking distance of its listening limit, which was most of
Jupiter
.

I assumed the bug was planted by the phony marine surveyor. What had I said, in person or on the phone, since then? I played back the conversations I’d had—conversations with Dave, Nick, and Kim … even chatting to little Max. When Kim and I talked, I made sure she wrote down the number to Lois Timbers, never speaking it.

And now that might prove to be a horrible mistake. Although they didn’t have Lois Timbers name or number, they had Kim’s name, and they heard her talking with me. I remembered the part of our conversation, what Kim said, that might cause them to hunt for her. ‘
She’s a school teacher in DeLand, and called from the school during her break. She said after dropping Courtney off at a clinic, she never saw her again until all of this news coverage began. She told me that Courtney asked to borrow her cell phone, and she made a call to someone.’

I had one of three choices to make, and I had to make it now. I could either call Dave or Nick to
Jupiter
, and unknown to them, paint a picture that would tell the eavesdroppers that the call and message Kim delivered to me turned to be a nothing but a hoax. I could say it was probably some political junkie calling to stir things up. Since Nick or Dave had no clue that I would be lying, the bluff might work.

The second option would be to speak directly into the bug and give the listeners a warning. If they even considered approaching Kim, I’d hold a news conference—tell reporters what Andrea Logan told me about her husband, show evidence of the bug, and let the voters sort it out at the polls.

But what if it was too late? What if they were at Kim’s home, or heading there? What could I really say? Maybe nothing. But I could do something, and that was to find Kim immediately.

I stepped out of
Jupiter
, locking the door, jumping over the transom to the dock and running to Dave’s boat. He was sitting at a teak table in the salon working a crossword puzzle, windows wide open, white drapes flapping in a breeze blowing across the marina water. Max jumped from the couch to greet me. “Hey, Kiddo,” I said, scratching her head. “Dave, do you have Kim’s number?”

He looked over the tops of his bifocals. “No. However, if I were twenty years younger, I’d make it a priority to get it. Why?”

“I think she’s in danger.” I quickly told him what I knew, including my call to the mysterious woman in South Carolina. “Is Nick on his boat?”

“I think so.”

“Call him and see if he has her number or knows where she lives.”

“Good idea.” He made the call and asked the questions. “Thanks, Nick. Yes, he’s standing here. Sure …” Dave handed the phone to me. He said, “Nick doesn’t have Kim’s number, and he says he thinks she rents a small home near the lighthouse.”

I took the phone and Nick said, “That detective, the black guy who knows you …”

“What about him?”

“He was here about an hour ago. Said he tried to call you, but got no answer. He wants you to call him.”

“Did he say what it was about?”

“No, man. Told him I’d pass it on if I saw you. Is Kim okay?”

“I don’t know, Nick. I need to find her.”

“Big John ought to know how to get hold of her.”

“Thanks, Nick. Gotta go.”

I turned to Dave. “Can you keep an eye on Max? There’s some food for her in
Jupiter’s
galley. You have a key.”

“Go find Kim; take care of her. I can take care of Maxine.”

***

Big John, at the Tiki Bar, gave me Kim’s number and the address to her home. I stood on the dock adjacent to the bar and made the call. On the second ring I heard, “Hi, this is Kim. Please leave a message.”

“Kim, it’s Sean; call me.” I left the number and ran hard to my Jeep. She lived less than a mile away. But I felt like it would be a long journey because I couldn’t get there fast enough. I drove more than sixty through a twenty-five zone down a winding, narrow road that hugged the west side of Ponce Inlet, near the Halifax River. It was bordered on the left with cabbage palms and windswept scrub oak resembling giant bonsai trees. I swerved around bicyclists in the center of the road, golf carts crossing the road, tourists on mopeds, and cars crawling well below the speed limit.

I turned off Peninsula Drive onto Sailfish Street, a street filled with ranch-styled homes. The fourth house on the left was the address. It was a small brick home. Yard neat. Royal palms on either side of the house. Kim’s car was in the drive. I spotted a white Chevy van across the street, under the shade of a large oak. Not a good sign.

I parked near the van. Made a mental note of the plate number. I got out of the Jeep, stood in the shade a moment, the ticking of the engine cooling was the only sound. I walked toward a large banyan tree, keeping the tree between me and the house, a strangler fig gripped the tree trunk with octopus tentacles. I lifted my Glock from under my belt.

On the way to the front of the house, I placed my hand on the hood of Kim’s car. Very warm. I dialed her number and walked silently to the front door. I stood at the door and heard the phone ring. On the fourth ring, it went to her voice mail.
Phone’s here. Car’s here. Where’s Kim? Napping, maybe? Not likely.
I looked at the lock on the door. There were some slight abrasions. Not worn by keys, but fresh. Picked. I gently opened the door. I held the Glock with both hands, and walked inside. I felt a drop of sweat roll down the center of my back. The cool air encircled me. I stood in the foyer and listened. There was the hush of air through the vents in the living room ceiling. The ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner to the right of a blue sofa. The floors were wood, polished. A large oriental rug in the center.

A noise.

A creak coming from the wooden floors. Somewhere in a back room. I slipped my boat shoes off and walked barefooted down a hallway, Glock extended. Adrenaline pumping. Another creak. Was Kim walking? I wanted to shout her name. To verify that she was okay. The grandfather clock started chiming.
Bong … bong … bong …

The sound of someone walking carefully was closer. And there was the distinct sound of a gas stove ignited, burning.

I stopped in a closed doorway—maybe a bedroom. Listened. The
whoosh
of a gas burner was louder. I turned my head to the left, guarded, and peering into the kitchen. The front right burner was on high, blue flames whispering. There was a bright white flash. Next to my head, a framed glass photograph on the wall exploded. The bullet missed my ear by less than an inch. I hit the floor, rolling, and came up behind a kitchen counter, Glock firing.

Two men returned fire, bullets ripping through the kitchen, room filling with white smoke, the smell of cordite heavy. I fired again. One man screamed. I heard them running, tripping over furniture. Smashing things. They bolted out the front door. I followed, smoke in my eyes. There was blood on the floor. One of my bullets connected. I’d try for two. I stood at the open door and aimed my pistol. They ran through the yard to a waiting dark blue van. I started to squeeze the trigger. A neighborhood kid on a bicycle was less than fifty feet behind the running men, and the kid was in the line of fire.

The men jumped into the passenger side of the van and the driver sped off, the tires throwing loose gravel. I lowered my Glock and turned to go back inside. Horrified at what I might find.

I found Kim lying on her stomach in an alcove off from the kitchen, blood oozing near her right ear and pooling on the white tile. Her hair was matted with blood. I dropped down beside her and gently touched her. She shuddered. “Kim, it’s me, Sean.” I checked her wounds, making sure there were no obvious neck or spinal cord injuries. Her mouth had been sealed with duct tape. She looked at me, her eyes blinking tears, pleading, nostrils flared, inhaling in fast heaves—so very frightened.

I grabbed a clean towel folded on the counter and pressed it against the open gash on her head. “You’re going to be okay,” I whispered, gingerly pulling the tape off her mouth.

She gasped, “Sean!”

“It’s all right now. Take a deep breath and slowly release it.” I used my phone to dial 911, gave the dispatcher the address and told her to send paramedics. Then I turned back to Kim. “Help’s coming. We have to get you to the ER.”

Kim looked at the roaring blue flames coming from the burner, eyes tearing. “They came out of nowhere as I was making a cup of tea. One man pushed me against the wall and screamed for me to tell him the name of the woman who lent Courtney Burke her phone. When I told him I didn’t know, he started beating me. He kicked me in my side, and he wore those military boots. He knocked my breath out. He said he was going to hold my hand over the burner until my memory returned. Sean, if you hadn’t arrived, I’d be dead. They weren’t going to let me live. I know what one man looks like. The other kept watch at the front door.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s about your height, but stocky. His hair is blond … cut short. His ears stuck out just a little. He had cleft chin and hateful green eyes. He smelled of that body spray I’ve smelled before. One of the deck hands uses it. I can smell it when he sits at the bar. He told me it was Axe body spray. Sean my hands are tingling. I feel like I might pass out.”

“Stay where you are—don’t move until we can stabilize you.” I turned off the gas to the burner and knelt down beside Kim. I took the towel from her head and examined the gash. I could see the white bone of her skull. “You’re going to need some stitches.” I dampened a fresh towel and cleaned her wound, stopping the flow of blood. I used the thumb of my left hand to push a bloodied strand of hair from her face. She looked at me, eyes welling, biting her lower lip. “I hear the siren. Paramedics will be here in a minute.”

“Thank God you were here, Sean.”

I said nothing.

She inhaled deeply. “What do I do if he comes back?”

“One of my bullets hit him. They might not come back.”

“There might be others.”

“I know, but I’m going to send them a message. It’ll be one that they can’t ignore, and it should toss a safety net over you. It’s Courtney they want.”

She looked at the stove for a moment. “Dear God … does that poor girl have a prayer?” Her eyes opened wider. “Where’s Thor? My dog … is he … okay?”

There was a whine and scratching at a door. I stood and walked to a closed bedroom door, opened it, and a German Shepherd darted around me, heading into the kitchen.

A barrage of sirens came around the block. I stood and looked through the front window to see six squad cars pull in a semi-circle around the perimeter of the property.

A neighbor must have heard the gunshots.

The ambulance and paramedics were kept at bay until officers and a SWAT team were in position. There was only one thing I could do. I left my Glock on the table, walked to the front door, raised my hands and stepped out onto the porch. I could count no less than twenty gun barrels pointed at my chest. I yelled, “It’s clear. I’m the one who called nine-one-one. We have an injured woman inside. The perps have fled.”

“Keep your hands up! On your stomach! Face down!”

I complied. A half dozen police officers ran over to me, guns drawn. I was patted down, cuffed.

“He’s clean,” said one taller officer.

I said, “The victim’s female. She’s lying on the kitchen floor, bleeding from a head wound. She may have a fracture to her neck or back.”

The SWAT guys ran past me, ballistics armor rattling, and assault rifles readied. I heard the sound of shoes on the sidewalk very close to me. I lifted my head and turned. The brown wingtips were less than three feet from my face. He was a silhouette in the sun over his shoulders, but his voice was no stranger. Detective Dan Grant said, “Sean O’Brien, lying on his belly, hogtied … my, my, what’s this world coming to?”