O’Brien thought about that as he drove back in time down the winding gravel road leading to Highland Park Fish Camp. He thought about Billie’s constant awareness of the natural presence honed from biology of survival, from a DNA helix spiraled by endurance and inherited from the collective souls of the elders, the handed-down genes of a shaman.
The old fish camp was a throwback to Florida of the 1950’s, timeworn cabins with screened-in porches, Airstream trailers anchored beneath live oaks cloaked with pewter beards of Spanish moss. O’Brien could hear the muffled sound of a boat motor on the river in the distance. There was the scent of wood smoke, fresh pine needles, and damp moss in the still air.
It was in the most remote section of the fish camp where Joe Billie lived, away from fishermen and families renting cabins for long weekends on the water. His trailer sat on cinderblocks beneath pines and oaks, the decades-old Airstream’s traditional polished exterior now covered in age spots from time, tree sap, and roosting birds. To the left of the trailer, a canoe was turned upside down, perched on logs a foot off the ground.
O’Brien parked and got out, Max scampering from the Jeep’s open door, squatting to pee near a rotting tree limb covered in salmon pink mushrooms. “Max, let’s go see if Joe’s home.” She cocked her head, sniffed the mushrooms, and trotted behind O’Brien down a pine straw path to the trailer’s front door.
O’Brien knocked. Silence coming from the trailer. There was the chortle of two ravens flying over the pines in the indigo blue sky, the birds making a half circle high above O’Brien before heading toward the river. An acorn dropped from an oak and bounced off the trailer’s roof. In the distance, rifle shot echoed across the river somewhere in the Ocala National Forest.
“What brings you to my place in the woods?”
O’Brien turned around and smiled. Joe Billie, six-two, notched brown face with a hawk nose, could look O’Brien directly in the eye. And he did. He wore faded jeans, black T-shirt and a wide-brim, fawn-colored hat. In his left hand he carried a paperback novel. Billie grinned and squatted as Max ran up to him, her tail wagging, eyes bouncing. He lifted her up in one large brown hand. He held her against his wide chest and said, “I will never forget the time Max had her first encounter with that big rattlesnake. She showed no fear.”
O’Brien smiled. “I believe she thought the rattle was a toy.”
“She’ll know better next time.”
“How’ve you been, Joe?”
“Okay. You?”
“Good.”
“I rarely see you when things are good, Sean.” Billie smiled.
“You’re not an easy man to find, good or challenging times.”
“I’ve been building a few chickee huts for outdoor bars and restaurants. That work takes me into the ‘glades where I harvest palm fronds for the thatched roofs. The fronds are getting harder to find.”
“I have something that’s hard for me to find.” O’Brien stepped closer to Billie and opened the file folder. He lifted out the photo of the woman standing next to the river. “This picture was taken around the time of the Civil War. Do you recognize that place on the river?”
Billie shifted Max to his left hand and held the photo with the right hand. He stared at the image, his dark eyes alternating between the woman in the photo and the river in the background. “The lady is beautiful. Who is she?”
“I’m not sure. A painting was made from this picture. An elderly man hired me to find the painting.” O’Brien told Billie some of the story and added, “I have no idea what the secret of the river may be, but if I find that spot on the river I might have a better clue. Any idea where I might find it.”
“I recognize the area. It’s changed a lot since that picture was taken.”
“Can you give me directions?”
“Yes. At that point, the river is wide and deep. After the third Seminole War with the U.S. government, things kinda came to a draw as the Civil War broke out in North Florida. The army forgot about the Seminoles, having driven most into the ‘glades. A few still managed to live in and around the river. Some of the elders spoke of their grandfathers seeing a bizarre incident one night on the river. I don’t know if it’s the secret of the river. I do know where it happened.”
“Where?”
Billie looked at the picture. “Here…where the woman is standing. It’s a bluff overlooking the river. That’s the place where something very bad, very dark, happened.” He handed the photo to O’Brien.
“What happened, and how do I find this place?”
“You don’t. At least not quickly.” Billie glanced toward his canoe. “I’ll take you there, and the best way is to journey by water. Then I’ll tell you what happened on the river, and I’ll point out how I recognized the place…most people wouldn’t.”
FOURTEEN
After sunrise, Kim Davis slipped on a sweatshirt, pulled up her jeans, then opened her front door to step out onto the porch. She was barefoot, the concrete cool on her soles. She walked toward her mailbox and stopped in her tracks. The mailbox, mounted vertically on a wooden beam, was wide open. Sticking out of the opening was a blood red rose.
Kim lifted the rose out of the box. A note, attached by a white string, was written in what appeared to be font from a manual typewriter. Kim could hear a dog barking from the next street. Her temples were pounding, adrenaline flowing. She glanced around her yard. It was there in the grass. She held her breath for a second.
Footprints.
They were scarcely visible in the wet dew. But the prints were there. Leading from the porch to the far end of her driveway. Kim walked back inside her home, shutting the door with force, locking the bolt lock. She read the note: Dear, Miss Kim, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. But this rose has more than a similar scent. Its changing color represents Confederate blood. It is a beautiful flower, as you are a beautiful woman.
Kim stepped rearward a few feet, her back touching the wall in her living room. She stood there, breathing fast through her nostrils. Light from the sunrise poured through the glass pane window at the top of the door, striking the rose she held in her hand. Kim lowered her eyes, the rose suddenly looked inflamed, as if it was smoldering in her grip. She felt a chill, goose bumps popping up on her arms. For an eerie moment, Kim Davis thought she could see inside the petals, see the molecules moving, the lifeblood of dead soldiers flowing through the deep red petals.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, slowly releasing the air in her lungs. She whispered. “Focus. I’ve dealt with my share of freaks before…he’s just one more in the lineup. Now it’s time to get the hell out of my life.”
Kim walked into her kitchen, tossed the rose and note on the table, picked up her phone and dialed Sean O’Brien. It went immediately to his voice-mail. At the beep, she said, “Sean, hey, it’s Kim. During the night, I received a special delivery. One single rose with a creepy note delivered to my mailbox. I don’t know for sure who did it. But I have an idea, and it could be related to the Civil War, just like that painting you’re trying to find for the old man. Honest to God, I hate to say this…but deep inside me, my gut is telling me that, somehow, they could be related. Please call me as soon as you get this.”
FIFTEEN
The first thing O’Brien noticed was the inconspicuous, the silence. Joe Billie sat in the rear of the canoe, paddling so quietly that O’Brien looked back twice to see how he did it. Even in the aluminum canoe, Billie made no noise. No sound of the paddle against the canoe. No sound of the oar pushing against the river current. O’Brien wasn’t concerned about a stealth approach, dipping his paddle in the dark water, pulling straight back — the twirling whirlpools of water burping up a slight whoosh sound.