“As a nation, we were trying to end the war.”
“Maybe Billy Lawson’s report that night had something to do with that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What if Lawson wasn’t killed in a mugging? What if he was killed in a cover-up and the cover-up has a direct connection to Jason being held hostage today?”
“How could that be?”
“The hostile on camera-it’s what he said about his father and the rightful ownership of the U-235 canisters. Why would he say that? Maybe his father was around the time Billy Lawson was shot. What if there’s a connection?”
“Sean, what connection? Any witnesses in the Lawson case are probably dead. Evidence is long gone.”
“Not if Billy Lawson was buried with it.”
“What?”
“Bullets. An old newspaper story indicated Lawson died from a single gunshot wound to the chest. Glenda Lawson, on the phone with her husband at the time of the shooting, said she heard three shots.”
“Maybe she was mistaken. Regardless, what can you do at this stage?”
“Exhume Lawson’s body from the grave.”
“Do what? If you find evidence of more than one shot, what have you proved?”
“That the newspaper story, taken from the police and FBI reports, was a lie. If they didn’t remove all the bullets in an autopsy, assuming they even did one in 1945, I might be able to identify the type of murder weapon.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Glenda Lawson’s home was cast in dark olive green shadows when O’Brien pulled into her driveway, which was long ago built of aged bricks. The home was turn-of-the-century old Florida: coquina stone, one story, and a tile roof the tint of rust. A large banyan tree stood in the small front yard flanked by philodendrons along one side of the home.
When O’Brien parked his Jeep and walked across the small, faded limestone blocks, the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine and magnolia blossoms escorted him to the door. He knocked once; and in the dying light, Abby Lawson opened the door and greeted him.
“Sean, I’ve been watching the news,” she said, holding her hands in front of her, fingers locked. “They say two people died … the manager of a self-storage building and the girlfriend of Jason who works on your boat. They also said Jason was kidnapped … is he …?”
“He’s alive. What your grandmother might tell me could keep him that way.”
“Please, come in.”
“I won’t be long.” O’Brien looked at the road beyond the home before entering.
Abby closed the door. “Things are happening at a frightening pace since you found that U-boat.”
“Good evening Mr. O’Brien,” said Glenda Lawson entering the living room. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Mrs. Lawson-”
“Please, dear, call me Glenda. We heard about the deaths of that poor young woman, the kidnapping of her boyfriend and the death of the storage place manager.” She was quiet a moment and said, “This is all happening because of what my Billy saw that night, isn’t it, Mr. O’Brien?”
“I think it might be connected.”
Glenda coughed once, inhaled, a wheezing sound bubbling from her lungs, and said, “Is there anything we can do for you? Please stay for supper.”
“I need to ask you some questions about the night Billy saw the U-boat.”
“Okay, but I must ask you a question first, when was the last time you ate?”
“Yesterday.”
“You look like it. Abby makes the best lasagna you’ll ever have. We just took it out of the oven half hour ago. Please join us.”
“I don’t have a lot of time-”
“Young man, if you have time to talk, you have time to eat, too. I insist.” She turned and went into the kitchen. “Come join us, don’t keep an old woman waiting.”
As Abby served lasagna, warm garlic bread, and salad, O’Brien, who was sitting across the oak table from Glenda, asked, “When your husband told you where the men had buried the cargo, what did he say? You’d mentioned the old Fort Matanzas, remember?”
“I’ve never forgotten it,” Glenda said, looking out through the glass French doors onto her small garden. Holding her gaze on the fireflies floating in the philodendron, she added, “He told me they buried it maybe two hundred feet south of the old Spanish fort. When the light from the St. Augustine lighthouse comes across the fort’s watchtower at the six o’clock position, it shines through the window. Billy said they buried something in the sand along the line of light.”
“Do you know where Billy was standing when he saw the light on the fort?”
“No.”
O’Brien was silent. “Billy told you that when the light from the St. Augustine lighthouse rotates across the fort’s watchtower at the six o’clock position and shines through the window, that’s where something is buried in sand. The watchtower would have at least two openings, observation points, for the light to shine through it. If someone were to position themselves in the general area and walk it until they see the beam from the lighthouse through the observation opening on the south side, maybe-”
“But that area has dramatically changed since 1945. There are million dollar homes through there now.”
“Two things have not changed. The fort has been there for two-hundred-sixty-six years. It hasn’t moved. Neither has the lighthouse, which has been there at least a century. I used to surf fish there. There are no homes on the island, it’s a national park. I’d have to retrace, or try to retrace Billy’s steps that night.”
Glenda said, “His truck, it would have been close to AIA. He’d park off the shoulder, under some palms, and then walk down to the surf to cast his net. He liked to fish in the area because of the inlet. Sometimes Billy would cast directly into the surf. Other times he’d fish the inlet, usually on the north side of the pass.”
“The north side is still undeveloped today. Maybe it’s still there,” O’Brien said.
“Do you think you could find it?” asked Abby.
“I have to try. The kidnappers are holding Jason.”
“I’ll pray,” Abby whispered.
O’Brien said, “They know of the possibility of the remaining uranium hidden somewhere on the beach, maybe Rattlesnake Island, the island where Fort Matanzas is located. The men holding Jason might comb the sand on the island with sophisticated metal detection equipment. The advantage I may have right now is what you’ve told me about the lighthouse, but if you can remember anything else Billy said that night, something might give me another lead.”
“I’m so sorry about the young man,” Glenda said. “Unfortunately, I’ve told you all that my husband told me. He didn’t have a lot of time to get out details.”
“I understand.”
“Maybe you can find it with the information grandma gave you.”
“I don’t know,” Glenda said. “Matanzas doesn’t give up its secrets easily. It’s a beautiful place, but it is a place of suffering and a lot of bloodshed.”
“Matanzas Inlet has quite a horrific past,” Abby said, serving more food. “Not a good story at dinner, horrendous.”
O’Brien nodded. “I remember some of the history.”
“It was where the Spanish, in 1565, slaughtered the French Huguenots.” Glenda’s eyes enlarged. “More than two-hundred-fifty settlers died. The waters of the pass ran red with their blood. Happened at the inlet on Rattlesnake Island. In Spanish, Matanzas means massacre.”
Abby said, “Years later, the fort was built by the Spanish to keep the British from entering the inlet, coming upriver and attacking the back side of St. Augustine.”
O’Brien said, “A few centuries after that, the Germans enter the inlet and, somewhere on the beach, they bury a deadly cargo. Glenda, who investigated Billy’s murder?”
“Let me see … umm … there was a young man, a FBI agent. His name was Robert Miller. Never forgot him. A nice person. Professional, but he had some sort of anxiousness about him I didn’t quite understand.”
“How do you mean?”