Kim pressed against the truck door. “You’re insane.”
He stared at her, the moonlight pouring through the truck’s front windshield. He rolled down his window, a singsong chorus of cicadas reverberated through the woods. “I might be insane, but honey I’m not dumb. Your boyfriend O’Brien is dumb. He came onto my turf and challenged me. He, Miss Kim, drew first blood. It’s in your honor that I protect you. I’d duel to the death if I thought O’Brien would do it honorable and pace twenty-five steps before turning and firing.”
She said nothing, slapping at a mosquito on her arm. “Can you put your window up? Mosquitoes are biting me.”
“That’s because you have a fine bloodline. You’re a reflection of the Old South, you just don’t know it.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I know a lot about you, woman. I know the foods you like to eat. The wine you like to drink. Mostly Cabernet. The kind of coffee you like, Folgers. You still make it the right way, one pot at a time. Not using those little pods. I even know the time of your last menstrual cycle.”
Kim’s eyes opened wider. Her pulse pounded. “It was you! Your freak! Going through my garbage. You’re sick.”
“I’m a trash archeologist. Much of a person’s life, their past, present, and some of their future, can be told in a bag of their trash. Their diets. The meds they’re taking. The money they owe. The cycles of life are in the trash. Week after week. I know what kind of condom your boyfriend O’Brien uses, and I know your cycle is right about now. Your eggs are dropping and you’re ripe for conception.” He reached for her. She raked her fingernails down his arm, opening the truck door and running hard into the forest.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Frank Sheldon spared no expense. The entire open deck of America II was a floating party, a display of luxurious carousing flavored by the best decadence money could buy. White-jacketed waiters carried silver trays overflowing with finger-food cuts of beef wellington, chilled king crab claws, Beluga caviar and dozens of other gourmet foods. They strolled around the invited guests, stopping to serve the food and answer questions.
The rich and famous sipped Dom Perignon champagne, premium vodkas, gins and whiskeys. Wine, from the finest vineyards in the world, flowed from crystal glasses. Some of the guests danced to a Caribbean band performing near the stern. Others ambled along the deck, the long schooner quietly slipping out of Jacksonville for a short excursion down river.
Sean O’Brien lifted a glass of champagne from a waiter’s tray and wandered the length of the vast sailboat, his eyes shifting from face to face, hearing snippets of conversation, and listening for prompts of things to come. He watched two bearded Civil War re-enactors posing for pictures with the actors and spouses of actors, studio executives and movie investors. The night breeze smelled of expensive perfumes, grilled beef, exotic truffles, sushi and spilled champagne.
Near the bow, O’Brien overheard a shapely blonde actress giggle and smile at her date in a tux, his brown hair neatly parted on the left, gelled and sculpted from a page of the Great Gatsby playbook. She said, “I want to take my heels off and go stand on that long board on the front of the boat like Kate Winslett did in Titanic.”
He grinned. “In the olden days of sailing that’s the place where the statue of the naked chick was placed. Mariners believed it kept the sea serpents away.”
“Maybe I’ll stand out there naked before the night is over.” She downed a glass of champagne, pointing to a half dozen people shaking hands with a silver-haired executive producer, the nightlights of the city growing distant in the background. “That’s Lou Kaufman. His movies never lose money. I have to be introduced to him. You must introduce me, Darrin.” She trotted off, her date trailing behind her.
Then O’Brien heard another voice. Frank Sheldon. He worked the crowd, making toasts, telling jokes, patting backs, kissing beautiful starlets on their powdered cheeks, his eyes lingering on one statuesque brunette, breasts spilling out of a low-cut, short black dress. Sheldon whispered something into her ear. She smiled, raised a flawless eyebrow above one blue eye and nodded. Sheldon moved on, continuing to be the perfect host.
O’Brien trailed him. Staying out of the direct current of people surrounding Sheldon, but close enough to watch for someone he knew was watching Sheldon. Somewhere on the one-hundred-foot schooner was James Fairmont. O’Brien stopped at a serving table, white linen, black caviar and oysters on the half-shell on a bed of ice. He thought about Nick for a second as he picked up a small cocktail fork and slipped it inside his sports coat pocket.
O’Brien glanced at the moon through the ship’s masts. He saw a bat circling above the tallest mast. Then he heard a British accent, like a murmur in the crowd. A man’s voice. He said, “I’d really enjoy seeing the rest of the vessel.”
O’Brien looked around, watched through the throngs of people, the flashes of jewelry under the moonlight, the power brokering, the actors still acting — forever testing for the next part. The agents, managers, studios heads, the assistants — all moving to the synthetic rhythm of a bad life script. On the stern, the band played on as America II sailed deeper south on a real black river.
O’Brien caught a glimpse of James Fairmont straggling behind Sheldon as he headed toward the aft section of the schooner. Fairmont made no eye contact with any of the guests, keeping one hand on the leather satchel he carried over his left shoulder. Sheldon approached one of the men that O’Brien knew was hired protection, a man with a military haircut, wide chest stretching the black tux. The sentry nodded and whispered something into a small microphone taped to the inside of his thick left wrist.
Sheldon vanished inside a wooden portal door leading from the wheelhouse to somewhere inside America II. Less than thirty seconds later, Fairmont did the same. The mercenary spoke again into his sleeve. O’Brien stepped to the railing, the river more than twenty-five below. He typed a text to Dave: Cue Hornsby — the show’s about to start –
Kim Davis’s lungs burned. She ran fast through the forest, the moonlight her guide. She stopped near a large bald cypress tree, out of breath, Spanish moss thick and hanging straight down in the motionless night air. She listened for the sounds of pursuit. She knew Silas Jackson was somewhere out there in dark. Coming closer. She heard the whine of mosquitoes looping around her head, the cry of a nighthawk in the air above the forest. If she could only make one call. Phone’s in my purse.
A branch broke. Kim strained her eyes to look through the limbs and undergrowth. Trying to see movement. A wind gust through the trees stirred the boughs, moon lit shadows tiptoed over large ferns and across the forest floor.
She bit her bottom lip and ran. Ran hard. She prayed that she was running toward a road. Maybe an old hunter’s shack someplace in the forest. Anywhere to hide. She could smell campfire smoke in the forest, pinesap and rotting leaves. Kim’s heart pounded so hard it felt as if her breastbone might split.
A beam of light came through the openings in the trees. Kim looked behind her. He was less than one hundred yards away. Run. Just run. The light abruptly vanished. Gone. But he wasn’t. She could hear limbs cracking, the dogged pursuit of a predator smelling blood. Within seconds, she splashed through water covering her ankles. She ran through a dark swamp. She heard his voice echoing through her skull, his ominous warning. ‘More poisonous snakes per square foot than any national forest in the nation.’