Blood of Cain (Sean O'Brien (Mystery/Thrillers)) (38 page)

There was a movement, color in a forgotten acre of aged headstones and crumbling stone captions to lives once lived. A bright red cardinal darted through the cemetery, alighting on a low-hanging limb of a pine tree. I watched the bird, its feathers damp and slightly disheveled in the rain. The bird dropped to another limb and then flew to the top of an old grave-marker. The cardinal raised its head and warbled a note. I lowered my eye and saw a lone, red fresh-cut rose resting against the headstone. I stepped over and read the inscription.

Dorothy O’Connell

1860 – 1929

You gave us the gift of love

And we are forever blessed

The cardinal tilted its head at me, silent, the sound of raindrops plopping against leaves. I stood there a few minutes, listening to the rain fall, the sky a deep pewter gray, and yet there was a live rose on a very old grave. I had no idea who’d placed it there. But between the cardinal and the rose, the bookends of color framed an inscription that had meaning in a too often deceitful world.

I looked up to the heavens and let the rain fall against my face and chest, the water cool and somehow a healing tonic, a gentle spring flowing from an unseen source.

***

An hour later, after a change of clothes, I lay flat on the hard mattress in the motel room, the two pillows were spongy, like two loaves of bread. I closed my eyes, thinking about what I’d seen today, and what I saw on the news. Was Courtney dead? If so, I knew my would-be assassin, the guy I reeled in from the river, either didn’t deliver my message to his troop leaders, or he did and they ignored it. And I now knew that Courtney was my niece, my murdered sister’s daughter … my mother’s granddaughter.

I tried to make sense of life’s curveballs. I couldn’t. But I could keep my eye on the ball and swing hard, damn hard. I remembered what Courtney said that day on my boat.
‘I believe there was a reason we met on the road in that forest. I don’t know what it is, but I think the reason is might be bigger than you pulling those men off me.’

I opened and closed my fists, took a long deep breath and slowly released it. I hadn’t felt this protective toward someone since my wife, Sherri, died. Three years ago I was powerless to defeat her ovarian cancer. And, at the moment, I felt just as immobilized. If Courtney had been murdered, what could I do—charge Logan at one of his rallies and get shot through the head by the Secret Service?

If it wasn’t Courtney’s body, if she’d somehow managed to get out of New Orleans, dodging federal agents, police, and special op mercenaries, it demonstrates her uncanny ability for survival. And it would mean she’s moving closer to finding and confronting her uncle, my brother, who I now knew was a raging and deadly psychopath.

The room was very warm and dark. I walked over to a wall air-conditioning unit and punched the start button. Hot air blew out of the unit for more than a minute before beginning to cool, the air smelled like a damp and moldy basement. Even over the drone of the air conditioner, I could hear the storm building, thunder rolling, and a flash of lighting blooming beyond the thin, white curtains.

I opened the curtains and watched the rain fall through the shafts of light cast by the street lamps. The rain quickly filled potholes in the parking lot, the blue neon from the motel sign reflecting from the oily sheen across the asphalt like light off of black ice in winter. The
VACANCY
sign bleeding wavy white letters over the puddles speckled with raindrops.

I lay back in the bed, kicked my shoes off, and placed my Glock under a fold in the sheets. I watched the rain roll down the outside of the window, my eyes growing heavy.

There was a buzz and vibration from one of the disposable phones on the nightstand next to the bed. I recognized the number. I answered and Kim Davis said, “Sean, I’ve been thinking about you since I left the hospital. How are you?”

“I’m okay. How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks. My sister’s spending a couple of days with me. Did you hear about the girl’s body they found in a bayou near New Orleans?”

“Yes.”

“I hope and pray it’s not Courtney. It seems like every news station is trying to beat the others to be the first to come forth with an ID. I just wanted to call you to … to just see how you’re doing. You sound tired.”

“It’s been a tiring day.”

“Where are you?”

“In the Carolinas. In a motel that could double as the Bates Motel.”

She laughed. “It’s good to hear your voice. I wanted to thank you again for what you did for me.” She blew out a breath. “I’ll let you go. Wherever you are, I hope you get some rest tonight. Goodnight, Sean, I miss you.”

As I started to say goodnight, I heard the phone disconnect, its silence lingering in the room like the illusion of an imaginary whisper in the night. I closed my eyes, the sound of the rain against the window fading. I was in a dark room in Iraq, the red light on the video camera like a Cyclops eye, non-blinking, staring. I was slapped across the face by a wide, hard hand, blood and sweat falling against my bare chest, my teeth loose.

Then I was in a stone castle, or maybe an ancient church. I saw my mother’s face—the face in the photograph with my father. I saw my brother’s face as a baby morph into a man who turned his head away. He wore a dark robe, and he entered a small room and closed the door. From behind a privacy screen, I heard footsteps running, the sound coming from a stone floor. And then the long, agonizing scream of a frightened woman.

I sat up in bed, sweat dripping down my face, sheets damp. The odor of incense and candles burning. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The bright red numbers flashing 3:07 a.m.

My head pounded, and I felt as if I was halfway through a marathon. I closed my eyes, waiting for my heart rate to slow, return to normal. Then I drifted away, like swimming in the ocean at night under a cloudless sky. The darkness returning. I had the sense of freefalling, moving through a pitch-black abyss with no internal compass, no physical perception of gravity or direction. But I knew I was moving quickly. I wanted to wake up again, to take a shower and hope for a new sunrise. But I couldn’t. My body felt trapped in quicksand, unable to do anything but be a passenger on a train bound for hell. I was strapped down, sweat rolling over my ribcage, the Cyclops red eye returned, the Iraqi butcher coming through the door with sharpened knives catching the light from a single lamp. Then the dream weaver made paper doll cutouts from black paper, leaning closer, his vinegary breath in my face, his dull scissors cutting through my frontal lobes. The final snap of the clippers, a rush of white noise, the lobotomy done and the red light fading into complete darkness.

And my eyes unable to close.

The next morning’s ashen-lead skies, air thick with humidity, fit my sleep-deprived mood. After I checked out of the motel, I found a diner in North Augusta with good coffee and a spotty cell phone signal. The breakfast special was shrimp ‘n grits, scrambled eggs and rye toast. Why not? If I liked it, I’d tell Nick about the concoction. I wanted to turn on my smart phone and find the location to a store. But I didn’t risk it.

The waitress, a slender middle-aged woman with hazel eyes and hoop earrings the size of small doughnuts, refilled my half consumed cup of black coffee. “How’s breakfast, Hon?”

“Good. Do you know this area well?”

“Been here all my life. You movin’ into our little town?”

“I’m looking for a place to buy art supplies.”

“There’s only one in town, if it isn’t already out of business.” She looked at me for a second, as if to decide if I was the artsy type. “It’s called Ben’s Arts and Crafts. You’re about five blocks from it. Don’t think they open ‘til ten. So you got a little wait. You can hang out here. We’re not busy, and we’re not worried about turning over tables.” She lifted a folded newspaper off her tray. “Here, you can read the paper. Last customer left it in the booth.” She set the paper in front of me. If the printed word could make a sound—a noise, I felt like what I read was screaming at me. The bold headline read:

Suspected Female Serial Killer Shot Dead or Missing?

***

At 10:20 a.m., I was in the door at Ben’s Arts and Crafts, trying not to think about what may have happened to Courtney, concentrating on what I could do right now for my mother. Some things I do well. Many things, not so well. Shopping is one of them. I’m an in-and-out kind of guy. Get it and go. But now I was shopping for my mother. For the first time in my life, and hers, I was buying a gift for her. It felt good.

I found Ben, a Mister Rogers twin who looked like he’d inhaled too many paint fumes. When I told him what I wanted to do, he snapped out of his zombie character and began to advise me on all things art, leading me down the aisles, making “must have” suggestions from paints to painting knives. “Does your mother prefer oil or acrylics?”

“Well …”

“Let’s get her both.” He rattled on about the differences.

We filled the cart—filled three carts, with canvases, brushes, dozens of paints—oils, watercolors, acrylics, some disposable palettes, and a “French-style” easel with a storage drawer. It took three trips from the checkout register to my Jeep to load the art supplies. Santa’s sleigh all packed, and Ben—my new BFF, was my head elf. He stood in the parking lot as I drove off, grinning and waving like Mister Rogers on crystal meth.

***

My comfortable mood was short lived. Two cars were parked partially on the grass and street near my mother’s driveway. I watched as a dark blue, late-model Ford cargo van drove from her house, stopping briefly at the street, turning toward me and driving away. I looked carefully at the driver. It was a scene I’d watched before in and out of law enforcement. If foul play wasn’t immediately suspected in a death, when an autopsy wasn’t ordered, the funeral home made the pickup. Not in a hearse, but rather a van or a station wagon type vehicle. The funeral guys used the same stretchers that ambulance personnel used. But there was no sense of urgency. Death does that.

The driver stared straight ahead. He wore dark glasses, tan sports coat, white button-down shirt. Face expressionless. Another day, another pickup. And I knew this pickup was my mother.

I felt my chest tighten, heart pumping, adrenaline flowing into my system. I turned into the drive and headed toward her home. There were five cars parked near the trailer. I got out and walked, the air motionless, the whirr of a bumblebee in the petunias, the barking of a pit bull tied to a dogwood tree in the backyard of the mansion next door.

I wiped a drop of sweat out of my eyebrow, the late morning growing hot. A woman, mid-twenties, dark hair pinned up, stepped from the trailer. She had a three-ring notebook and two plastic bags filled with something. The bags had come from the CVS Pharmacy. I nodded and asked, “Is everything all right?”

She stared at me a second, almost like she was trying to place my face. I thought about all of the damn news coverage. “Are you a relative?” she asked

“Yes. I’m her … I’m her son … Sean …”

“I’m so sorry to tell you, but your mother passed away last night. The body was just taken away by Johnson Funeral Home. I’m Debbie Thrasher, and I’ve been one of the Hospice caregivers for Mrs. O’Sullivan for the last couple of months. She died from lung cancer. We think the time of death was sometime during the night. Maybe around three a.m. because her bedside clock was flashing 3:07. But that might have been be due to the storm.”

I closed my eyes for a second, saw the blink of the clock in the motel last night:
3:07
. The dog behind the mansion stopped barking, the chatter from a pair of blue jays ended. Nothing seemed to move for a moment. I heard Debbie Thrasher’s voice return, like a radio signal becoming stronger. “ … And your mother was a remarkable lady. I learned a lot just being around her. She was such a good artist, and the stories she could tell of Ireland when she was a girl, they were just marvelous.”

I said nothing.

“Would you like to go inside? Some of her neighbors are there. Mr. McCourt, who checks on her regularly, was the one who found her when she didn’t come to the door this morning. She didn’t talk much about her family. She was private in that way, and we respected that. She did share with me the tragedy of her daughter’s death, but she kept her thoughts about her sons—you and your brother, close to her chest. She talked about her granddaughter who she said was on a mission trip of some sort. I took it to mean she was doing missionary work.”

I tried to smile, but could only nod while trying to wrap my head around what was happening. She added, “You said your name is Sean, right?”

“Yes.”

She opened her notebook. And removed an envelope. “She wrote the name Sean O’Brien across the envelope. Is that your last name?”

“Yes.”

“This is yours. It’s sealed, but marked with her handwriting. She had perfect penmanship. Your mother told us she’d written and filed a will. Her attorney is Sam McCowen in North Augusta. I’ll get you his contact information. She’d made all the arrangements for her death a few weeks ago. She’d bought a burial plot next to her daughter—your sister, in Hillcrest Cemetery.” The woman paused and looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Brien, to have to present you with these details at this time. We had no contact information for any family members. The people in her home are all close friends of your mother, people who were family to her. Do you know any of them?”

“No.”

“I’ll take you inside and introduce you.”

I followed her into my mother’s trailer. The chatter, the subdued mix of conversations going on all at once, it all ended when I stepped into the room. There were seven people standing, some drinking coffee, all looking very sad. Debbie Thrasher made the introductions, people nodding—a mixture of respect, curiosity, and suspicion in their eyes. They were from the clans of the McCarthys, O’Donnells, Gallaghers, and the Fitzgeralds. Irish gypsies or travelers, and they were the only family my mother had in her home at the time of her death.