“Where’s Silas?” asked the man taller of the two men.
“Napping.”
“Napping?”
“He dozed off in the truck-bed.”
They glanced into the truck-bed, speechless. “Move!” O’Brien shouted. He’ll just have a slight headache when he wakes up.”
The men waded across the creek, cursing under their breaths, swearing to get even. O’Brien watched them walk more than fifty yards, beyond a bend in the road, out of sight. He knew they’d circle back a different way. He took the hat off his head and tossed it in the truck-bed. One of Jackson’s hands was partially open, resting on his chest. O’Brien looked at the hand, the long fingernails, the large crescent moons at the base of the thumb and each finger. O’Brien had only seen that distinctive anomaly on one other man.
He ran to his Jeep, got inside and spun tires leaving the scene. He looked into his review mirror and saw the two men wading back across the creek. O’Brien dialed Gus Louden’s number. He answered after the seventh ring and said, “Sean, it’s good to hear from you. Did you locate the painting?”
“No, but I found your son.”
There was a long silence. O’Brien could hear Louden breathing harder. A slight rasp in his vocal cords. He said, “Please, tell me more.”
“No. You’re going to tell me more. Get in your car and drive nonstop back to the marina. Meet me at the Ponce Lighthouse at midnight. Come alone.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Cory Nelson waited for nightfall before stepping out of his motel room into the parking lot. A light rain fell, the dark wet asphalt reflecting a sheen of red and blue neon across the chemical green stains of radiator coolant and motor oil. He’d parked his Buick in one corner of the lot, away from the road traffic, passersby, hookers, and people coming and going in the motel. He looked around the lot, checked the time on his watch, opened the car door and got behind the wheel. He locked the doors.
Nelson turned the key in the ignition when he felt the Buick shift slightly, as if a person had bumped into the side of the car. When he looked into the side-view mirror, he sensed the hint of movement — something like a puff of air hitting his hair.
Someone in the backseat.
The garrote was around his neck. Someone pulling hard. No! The piano wire buried deep into Nelson’s flesh. He tried to get his fingers under the wire. He used one fist to flail at the attacker in the rear seat. The wire tightened. Nelson kicked the floorboard, gurgling inhuman sounds. Eyes bulging. Unable to draw air into his burning lungs. He thrashed with all his strength. The attacker was ruthless. The wire cutting into Nelson’s trachea. His carotid artery enlarged to the size of his small finger.
The attacker whispered. “You’re a liability. You will die first. Your insurance policy will go next.” He tightened the garrote, the wire tearing through the carotid artery, blood spraying across the dashboard.
Nelson thrashed, losing strength, looking into the rearview mirror. He felt warmth in his crotch, the odor of urine mixing with the coppery smell of blood. He could only see the man’s eyes. Emerald green eyes. Hard eyes that opened wider, pleased, as the kill became imminent. The man said, “I have the Civil War contract, and now I will have the diamond.”
Nelson stopped fighting. He felt like he was far away. He could hear his own heart beat faster. Faster. Remaining blood flowing out of his severed neck, a hand reaching into his coat pocket. Taking out the diamond. The whispered voice said, “I told you it was cursed. You kept it too long.”
Nelson’s head fell back against the car’s headrest. He stared at the eyes in the rearview mirror, heard the car door open and close, the mirror now reflecting the faraway headlights from the cars moving in the distance — tiny lights like small diamonds in the sky, stars twinkling in the darkest night Cory Nelson had ever seen.
SIXTY-EIGHT
O’Brien walked from the marina to Ponce Lighthouse. He stood in the dark near the base of the lighthouse, the breakers rolling beyond high sandy dunes covered in sea oats and hibiscus. The beam of circling light raked across the murky back of the Atlantic Ocean. He glanced up to the top of the lighthouse, a curved moon perched high in the inky sky. And he listened for the sound of an approaching car.
Gus Louden was more than twenty minutes late.
Who was Silas Jackson? Antisocial. Delusional. A psychopath. Maybe he’d keep his distance from Kim. Maybe not. Was he Louden’s son? Louden didn’t deny it. If so, would the discovery of the painting mean something beyond proving Gus Louden’s great, great grandfather died in battle? If Jackson stole the painting from the film set, was it hanging somewhere in his house?
O’Brien might not know who Silas Jackson was, but he did know Jackson didn’t murder Jack Jordan. The proof was in the slow-motion video. Did Cory Nelson steal the diamond from Jack Jordan after he shot and killed him? All the attention on the film set would have been focused on where Jordan fell to the ground, giving Nelson time and opportunity to break into Jordan’s van. But there was no evidence of a break-in. Why?
Headlights. Moving over the tops of Australian pines bordering the road. A few seconds later, a car turned onto the lot, the driver parking under a security light pole. When he opened the car door, O’Brien could see there were no other passengers visible. Was Jackson crouched in the backseat, finger on a trigger? Gus Louden stepped outside his car, locking the door. He stood near the streetlamp, looking. Waiting. A slight mist drifted under the light. O’Brien approached, keeping Louden between himself and the car.
Louden said, “Sorry, I’m running late. There’s evening road construction south of Jacksonville.
O’Brien said nothing, stepping to within four feet of Louden. “Is Silas Jackson your son?”
“Yes. He hasn’t communicated with his family in seven years. Where is he?”
“Why the charade with the painting? Why didn’t you just hire a PI who specializes in missing persons?”
“I did hire you to find the painting. I didn’t expect you to find Silas, too. I’d hoped that you might, but I wasn’t counting on it. How did you know he is my son?”
“Hold both of your hands out, palms down.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
Lowden slowly extended his arms, turning his palms down. O’Brien could see the dime-sized age spots on the back of Louden’s hands. And he could see the fingernails.
“You and your son share unique physical characteristics. Your hands are much the same. And the cuticles on your fingernails look like half-moons.”
“Where’d you develop your powers of observation, or were you born with the gift?” He lowered his arms.
“Listen to me, Gus. My patience is running thin with you. Your son is stalking a woman I care about. He had a loud argument with Jack Jordan, the man murdered on the film set. And two other people that were connected to a Civil War document that was stolen are dead. Silas Jackson, if that’s his real name, is linked to this. He lives in an unreal world of the 1860s. You tell me what the deal is between you two and why you hired me to find the painting.”
“First, I’m deeply sorry that you think I deceived you. That wasn’t my intention. His real name is Silas. He goes by the last name Jackson because of his admiration for Confederate General Stonewall Jackson. When Silas was a child, no more than four or five, he saw an old photo of my great, great grandfather — the man who was married to the woman in the painting. Silas heard stories about Henry Hopkins, the good and the bad. Somehow, the bad made a strong and lasting impression on him. He wanted to prove his relative was not a coward, but there was no real proof. Silas began studying the Civil War. But he didn’t stop there. He studied all things military. The great armies and the men who led them — Charlemagne, Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, and others.”