Billie nodded. “We don’t always know immediately. Sometimes you don’t have to do something. You observe. You learn.”
“Is that what you do?”
”What do you mean?”
“Joe, I don’t pry…you know that. But I don’t know a lot about you. I appreciate your friendship. I value your insight into the natural world. But what’s in your world, what’s in your head? You sort of show up out of the blue and then disappear. Where the hell do you go? What do you do? I don’t even know if you’re married, or anything about your family.”
Billie smiled. “Like you, I was married once. And like you, my wife died. But she wasn’t taken by disease, she was taken by man.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
“Did they find her killer?”
“No, at least not yet.”
“Maybe there’s something I can do.”
“Maybe. How are you feeling now?”
“Better. What’d you do?”
“I did what I could for the cut above your eye. And you were bleeding from your shoulder. I pulled a broken needle out. Figured whoever you fought…he or she fought with compounds…lethal drugs.”
“He.”
“Where is he?”
O’Brien said nothing for a few seconds. “I think I killed him.”
“You think?”
“I dove from the schooner into the river. He was getting away in an inflatable. The guy was a British agent. He’s left a string of bodies. He tried to break my neck underwater. I managed to get the upper hand and strangled him in the river. He just floated away with the current. What time is it?”
“About two hours before dawn.”
“I have to go.”
“Sean, you need some rest.”
“I need to find Kim. She was taken by a psychopath. Guy’s name is Silas Jackson. He’s been stalking her, and he’s severely delusional. Thinks he’s living in the Old South of the Civil War era, believes he’s a Confederate field officer. He’s s survivalist. A doomsday prepper with some severe antisocial behavior.”
“Where do you think he took her?”
“Maybe to his hideout in the Ocala National Forest.”
“Do you know what he drives?”
“A black pickup. Lots of dents in the body.”
“Is there a Confederate flag license plate on the front of the truck?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because I’ve seen that truck parked way back in the forest. It’s not far from an area where I cut palm fronds. He lives in a tarpaper shack and trailer. Raises fighting roosters and hunting dogs. I’ve seen a few armed men at his camp from time to time.”
“Take me there, Joe. Now. Let’s cross the river in your canoe. My Jeep’s back at the landing with my Glock and plenty of rounds.”
“Maybe you’ll only need one.”
EIGHTY-FIVE
The dawn was breaking across the vast expanse of coconut palms and live oaks in the Ocala National Forest as O’Brien drove his Jeep down a dirt road that was a little more than a winding path into the forest. “We’re close,” Billie said, looking at the terrain.
“How close?”
“His camp is less than a quarter mile, in a clearing to the right. He’s got a cattle gate across the drive.”
“I’m betting he’s got more than that to stop visitors.”
“You mean booby-traps?”
“Yeah.”
O’Brien parked off the road, behind a canopy of cabbage palms. He opened the glove box, getting a second clip of bullets for his Glock. He looked over at Billie. “I know how you feel about killing. I’m hoping it won’t come to that. You can stay here. Wait for me if you want. I’m bringing Kim back.”
“If he has extra men in his camp, you’ll need me.”
“I have some more hardware in the back. You can pick.”
They got out of the Jeep, O’Brien opening the hatch, lifting a green Army blanket. Under it was a 12-gauge shotgun and a crossbow. He said, “Take your pick.”
Billie reached for the crossbow and a half dozen arrows bound together with one strand of quarter-inch rope tied in a bow for easy removal. O’Brien nodded and said, “You’re predictable. But the shotgun is more effective.”
“It announces its presence.”
“There’s something about the sound of chambering a shell that speaks to a man’s soul. Let’s go.”
They moved through the thick vegetation, keeping noise to a minimum. Red and purple bromeliads grew from tree trunks. Spidery air plants, with sea urchin-like tentacle sprouts, clung from the trees like holiday decorations. A wood stork, it’s wingspan stretching five-feet, flew from a dead branch of a bald cypress tree, uttering a primal call that echoed back to the time of the Jurassic period. Joe Billie looked up and then glanced down, following the giant bird’s shadow across the land. He pointed to something near a tree. “Fresh soil. Let’s take a look.”
They cautiously approached a small rise barely higher than the surrounding area. Animal tracks were all over the earth. A hole had been dug in two places. “Bear tracks,” Billie said stepping closer to the hole. “It’s a shallow grave, and a fresh one. Sean, what color is Kim’s hair.”
“Brown.”
“Then this poor girl is not her. She’s someone else’s daughter.”
O’Brien walked up to the hole, staring down at the partially eaten face of a girl, blonde hair matted and bloodied. He stepped back, eyes searching the setting. “I’m betting Silas Jackson killed and buried her. He’s a serial killer, Joe. Hurry!”
In less than ten minutes, O’Brien and Billie were approaching Silas Jackson’s camp. O’Brien looked at the closed cattle gate. The thick and rusted chain was padlocked. He licked his finger and held it up, glancing at the moving treetops. “You said he has a dog.”
“Pit bull.”
“Let’s stay downwind, moving to the right perimeter of the camp and circling back.”
“Look over there,” Billie said, pointing to the path overgrown with weeds and ferns. He stepped closer, kneeling. He gestured towards some dead fern leaves. “These leaves are the only ones around that are dead. They were placed here. Why?”
“Because there’s something under them. Don’t touch it, Joe.” O’Brien squatted down, slowly lifting up the small branches. He motioned toward a metal cap no wider than a bottle top. It was barely visible in the soil. “Let me see your knife.”
Billie slid a serrated hunting knife from the sheath on his belt. O’Brien began to gently work the blade into the dark soil at an angle about four inches from the metal cap. Clink. O’Brien looked up at Billie and said, “IED. Probably homemade. Could be more around here. Good catch. Keep an eye out for tripwires too.”
They continued moving closer to the camp. O’Brien felt a trickle of sweat roll down the center of his back. His mouth dry, his thoughts on Kim. Please be alive. Within a minute, they could see through the undergrowth into the camp. O’Brien studied it.
Jackson’s pickup truck was closest to the house. It was a ramshackle mixture of cinderblock, siding the steely color of an old barn, tarpaper on one side, metal stovepipe sticking out of a rusted tin roof. Chickens pecked the hard-packed ground. A dozen A-frame wooden structures housed fighting cock roosters. A thick-chested pit bull, leashed to a chain, crawled under the open porch.
O’Brien gestured toward a second pickup parked near what looked like a run-down cabin. “Probably more than just Jackson here today.”
Billie scanned the perimeter and then motioned with the crossbow. “At least one.”