Max. She’d bark, no doubt. But what would they do to silence her on the back porch? If they’d put a dozen .45 caliber rounds into the head and face of a young woman … I didn’t want to think about what they’d do to little Max. I stayed in the thicket and followed the car as the driver moved very slowly down my driveway, unhurried as a walk, like he was trying to dodge the acorns and oyster shells. That wouldn’t happen. I’d placed the shells there for that reason. The oaks added their own touch.
I slipped in behind the palms and oaks, keeping the trees between me and the driver’s line of sight. The driver tapped his brakes, pulled to a quiet stop, and the headlights went out. I came closer, within fifteen feet of the driver’s door. The door slowly opened and the driver stepped out as I leveled the Glock, aimed for the person’s spinal cord and said, “Hands up! Now, or I’ll blow a hole through your backbone.”
The hands shot up in the night air, and the woman’s voice pleaded, “Don’t kill me!”
“Turn around.”
Kim Davis turned around, holding her arms straight up, eyes wide. “Sean, can I put my hands down?”
84
We walked around the cabin to the back porch, the full moon rising in the east over the river, fireflies hanging like holiday ornaments under the limbs of the cypress trees, Spanish moss motionless in the night air. Kim stopped, looking down toward the river, the reflection of the moon as if liquid gold shimmered over the water. She said, “This is spectacular. Sean, it’s so beautiful out here. No wonder you don’t spend more time in the marina. It’s so peaceful here, and so quiet.”
Max barked.
“Sometimes it’s quiet,” I said, as Kim turned toward the back porch and approached the door. Max stood on her hind legs and cocked her head, almost smiling at Kim.
“Max,” she said, “what are you doing in there?”
“She’s doing what watchdogs do … keeping an eye on this part of the property.”
“Can she come out?”
“Sure.”
Kim opened the door and Max almost jumped into her outstretched arms. “How are you girl? I’ve missed you.” She petted Max, then stood, her eyes rising up to mine, the light of the moon in her wide pupils. “I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here.”
“The thought crossed my mind. First, tell me how are you doing, how are you feeling?”
“Good as new, for the most part. My body’s healed, my psyche is getting there.” She smiled. “The reason I drove out is because Dave said you might be going out of town. He said a lot of stuff happened to you, but he wouldn’t get into details. Anyway, I thought I’d offer to watch Max if you’d like. My sister went back to her home. Max could stay at my house until you got back. We’d do girl things. Watch sappy movies and eat popcorn out of the same bowl.”
I smiled, glanced down at Max. “How about it kiddo, you want to hang with Kim? Remember, she cooks better than me.” Max tilted her head and barked. “There’s your answer, Kim. I’d pack her bag, but she travels light. Let me show you the river while you’re here.”
We walked down to the dock, the three of us, Max scampering ahead, running to the end of the dock. The bullfrogs sang baritone on the riverbank and perched on half-submerged cypress knees. The moon lit the river and the national forest with an ethereal light that appeared to hover through the tree limbs and over the surface of the river.
We sat on the wooden bench I’d built months ago, Kim looking at the stars and the silent flow of the dark water. A great horned owl hooted, its call coming from a dead cypress tree on the edge of the national forest. I pointed to three white-tailed deer standing where my backyard merged into the forest, the deer nibbling from a mulberry bush. They looked our way and then drifted back into the pockets of shadow under the trees.
Kim hugged her upper arms and said, “This is powerful … earthy … I feel it in my soul. It’s like some kind of an enchanted land, the full moon off the river, the owls, deer — even the bats, and look over there, I’ve never see so many fireflies in one place.”
“To the left of the cabin is a shell mound. It was used by the Timucua Indians for a century or two as a sacred burial ground. A friend of mine, a Seminole, his name is Joe Billie, tells me this spot above the river is hallowed ground.”
Kim smiled. “You mean haunted ground?”
“No more than any cemetery, I suppose. I think the ancient mound is a place to respect and hold in a higher light.”
She raised one eyebrow, her eyes feisty. “So Sean O’Brien’s never seen ghosts?”
“Well … I didn’t say that.”
She lifted my drink from the end of the bench, sniffed, her eyes even more playful. “The good stuff, Jameson. I bet after a few of these you’d see ghosts out here.”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Looks like you barely touched yours. Will you join me? But only one. I have to drive.”
We walked up to the cabin, Max following us after sniffing the spot where the deer had grazed. On the back porch I said, “This is a reversal. You’re always fixing drinks for me, Dave, or Nick, and now I have a chance to reciprocate. What would you like?”
“What do you have?”
“Jameson, of course. Vodka, gin, a few craft beers, and a bottle of cabernet.”
“The wine sounds nice, thank you.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen.” I uncorked my last bottle of cab, poured it slowly in a wine glass and handed it to her.
Kim sipped, closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the taste, her lips wet, and said, “This is good.” She looked around the kitchen and adjoining dining room with its knotty pine walls, ceilings, and cypress floors. “I love your cabin, which is more like a rustic home.”
“I’ll show you around.” She followed me throughout the house, stopping in what would be called a great-room in many houses. To me, it was a cozy den, a place to make a fire in the hearthstone fireplace, read a book, or watch an NFL game during the season.
She said, “This is so you, Sean. This room, this house, this place. It’s got a rough-hewn feel to it, yet the home is very comfortable. I like it.”
“Glad you do. It’s a little large for Max and me, but we like it here.”
“How’d you ever find this grand old home?” She sipped her wine and followed me onto the back porch, Max behind us.
“After Sherri died, I needed to get out of Miami. I resigned from the department, sold our house, and began looking for someplace remote, someplace to find stillness again. I always liked the St. Johns River, fished it years ago, and I found this place in an estate sale, the surviving family members at each other’s throats over ownership, sale price, you name it. No one had lived here in ten years. I made them an offer when they were in a compromising moment. They accepted, and ever since I’ve been replacing stuff — stuff like bathroom plumbing, wood around the house, the dock, fixed the roof twice. Please, sit down. I’ll be right back.”
I freshened my drink, brought the bottle of wine to the porch, and we sat on wicker chairs with overstuffed cushions. Kim curled her legs beneath her, holding the wine glass in both hands. Max jumped on the wicker couch and transformed into a reddish-brown ball, her chin resting on a toy squirrel she often carried from floor to chair.
Kim sipped from the glass of wine, the cicadas chirping in the oaks and palms, the nasal call of a nighthawk over the river. “Is that a picture of your wife?” she asked, looking at the framed picture of Sherri on the table next to the couch where Max slept.
“Yes, that’s Sherri about a year before her death.”
“She was beautiful.”
“Inside and out.” I stirred the ice in my glass and sipped the Jameson.