Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (2 page)

The door to the office flew open. A large-breasted teenage girl with shoulder-length red hair stepped into the room, her face shiny and flushed. “Miss Belle…I need to go home.”

The secretary looked up from her paperwork, her head rising just above the reception counter. “You sick again, Linda Sue?”

The girl glanced over to Andy Cope. She swallowed dryly, licked her lips and approached the counter. She lowered her voice, clearing her throat. The secretary stood, waddling to the desk. The girl looked back over her shoulder for a second at Andy and then whispered something to the woman.

Andy saw blood trickle down the inside of the girl’s left leg, the back of her dress red and stained. He looked away.

11:28. The train whistle blowing. Coming closer.

The secretary exhaled an exasperated sigh. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.” She opened a hinged, wooden half-door in the center of the counter desk, the girl stepping through, two spots of blood the size of pennies where she had stood. The secretary looked over to Andy, pointed her short index finger at him. “Andy Cope, you sit still. I’ll be back in a minute. Mr. Gillespie is out in hall. Stay put, you hear?” She turned, the girl following her to a faculty bathroom.

Andy stood, peering through the glass window, the principal in the corridor talking with a teacher. Andy knew the hall beyond the principal’s door led to a series of backrooms and an exit on the west side of the building, the side facing the railroad tracks. As he started to turn—to run, his sister Caroline appeared in the foyer. She looked at the principal speaking with a teacher and then she looked over to Andy. He raised his hand, slowly, watching his only sister for a moment. She bit her lower lip, holding library books against her chest, lifting her head, a slight nod.

He smiled and then turned, running. He ran hard down the hall, three offices vacant during the lunch hour, the rumble of the train engine muffled through the building. At the end of the hall was the exit door. The door to freedom. Andy jostled the handle. Locked. His heart sank.
There was a noise. Metal and wood. Something scraping on the floor. A black man in his sixties, salt and pepper hair, came out of the janitor’s closet, a mop in one hand, bucket in the other, perspiration beaded on his forehead. He looked at Andy, the man’s prudent eyes assessing a scared kid. He knew the boy. Always a polite kid—a boy with a soul older than his time on God’s earth.

Andy stood straight. His jawline hard. “Can you let me out?”

“Andy Cope, what’s your hurry, son? This school’s got a big ol’ front door, too.”

“James, they’re trying to send me to reform school. I done nothin’ wrong. Just been late to school a few times. It’s on account…” Andy held back his words, his eyes watering.

The old man shook his head. “I ‘spect I know why.” He reached for the key ring on his belt, opening the door, the sunlight pouring inside.

Andy nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t get caught. If you do, they cain’t know it was me who hepped you. Understand?”

“Yes. Much obliged.” Andy ran down the sloping schoolyard, jumping a drainage ditch filled with dark water, running toward the tracks. The freight train was slowing, the engine closer to the crossing, the caboose trailing around the bend. Andy looked for a boxcar with side doors open. He ran adjacent to the rolling train, his mouth dry, heart pounding—sunlight flickering through the open spaces between boxcars.

The janitor stood in the shadows of the school door. He whispered. “Come on, Andy. Run! Faster!”

The train whistle blew a long blast, the boxcars picking up a notch of speed. Andy ran hard as he could, his leather shoes hitting gravel and wooden crossties, the smell of diesel in the
air. He jumped, reaching for the iron ladder. He caught it, his body swinging like a flag in the wind for a few seconds.

A man in a pickup truck idling at the crossing watched the boy clinging to the ladder, watched him fighting to get a footing on the moving train. The man spit a stream of tobacco out the truck’s open window. He thought he recognized the boy. He’d know for sure when the train came closer, if the kid didn’t fall to his death.

Andy pulled hard, lifting his body higher from the ground. He tried to sling his legs up to the boxcar platform. His right leg slipped, the train picking up speed. He tried again, reaching deep inside for more strength. He pulled his body further up, grabbing the side of the door and crawling into the cavernous mouth of the open car.

The janitor nodded, watching the train gain speed. “Good luck, Andy Cope. You’re gonna be needin’ it.” He stood there for a few more seconds, the sound of steel on iron fading, the caboose growing small in the western horizon. He blew out a long breath and closed the door.

The man in the pickup truck stopped at the crossing, watching the train roll down the tracks. He saw the boy crawl into the shadows of the boxcar. The man stared into the open boxcar when it passed in front of his truck. A shaft of sunlight broke through the side door, the flash illuminating the scared face of Andy Cope.

The man spit the finished wad of tobacco out of his mouth. When the caboose rolled by and the crossing lights stopped flashing, the man put his truck in gear and mumbled, “Andy Cope. Bet your daddy would like to know where you’re at, boy. You just jumped a freight train bound for nowhere.”

Andy sat in the shadows, watching the countryside roll by, the warm summer wind drying the sweat on his face, the song of the rail playing through his free soul.

ONE

Florida - Ponce Inlet - Present Day

T
he letter came to a place where letters were never delivered, at least not to me. I was paying my boat-slip rent at Ponce Marina when the dock master, a wiry man sporting a salt and pepper stubble and wearing a sweat-stained Hatteras ball cap said, “Oh, Sean, I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“The letter.”

“Letter?”

“Yeah. Arrived last week. I walked down to your boat.
Jupiter
was buttoned up tight. Nick Cronus said he hadn’t seen you in a few days. Said you were probably at your river cabin. I don’t have a forwarding address. So, I figured you’d stop by sooner or later. I’ll get it.” He shuffled across the small office, a large corkboard on one wall filled with fliers advertising boats for sale. Half a pot of burnt black coffee smoldered on a burner.

The dock master hummed the song,
99 Bottles of Beer
, while leafing through a wire-mesh basket filled with mail. “Found it. Some damn neat handwriting. Maybe it’s an old girlfriend. Maybe not. I hear that’s what Facebook’s for. That’s why you sure as hell won’t find my face on Facebook.”

He handed the letter to me. “Thanks, Al. Come on Max.” I left the office, Max my ten-pound dachshund romping a few feet ahead of me as we opened the gate to L dock. She paused, watching a brown pelican perched on a creosote-stained piling, the bird shifting its weight from one webbed foot to the other, its head tilted, a big yellow eye watching Max. “Come on, Kiddo, leave the neighbors alone.” Max snorted and we continued our hike down to my old boat docked at the very end of L dock.

A gentle wind from the east, toward the Atlantic Ocean, blew across the marina, the scent of blackened grouper and garlic crab coming from the Tiki Bar, a rustic wharf bar that could imitate restaurant status. A day-charter fishing boat chugged from Ponce Inlet and the Halifax River into the marina and around the long piers moored with dozens of yachts and sailboats. The fishing boat,
Lucky Strike
, was filled with tourists and the day’s catch. Screeching sea gulls followed the boat’s wake across the water.

I looked at the envelope. Letter-perfect penmanship. It was addressed to Mr. Sean O’Brien, care of Ponce Marina. On the top, left side of the envelope was the return address. Just an address. No name of the sender. The return address was in Jacksonville. I didn’t know anyone there. If it was something ominous, and if the sender licked the envelope before sealing it, he or she might have sealed DNA with the glue and paper.

I needed a knife. “Come on, Max. I bet Nick has a fillet knife on his boat. If Nick’s not out fishing, we’ll pay him a visit.” Max walked faster, almost prancing, head held high, parading down the dock. She knew Nick’s boat,
St. Michael
, but more importantly, she knew Nick was an excellent and generous cook.

A trail of white smoke puffed from under the hood on a small barbecue grill near the center of
St. Michaels’
cockpit. The double doors to the salon were wide open, Greek music
coming from inside the fishing trawler, a boat with the lines and lineage from those that sailed the Mediterranean for centuries.

“Hot dog!” bellowed Nick Cronus, stepping from the salon to the cockpit, a Corona in one hand, a spatula in the other. Max sprinted across the auxiliary dock that ran parallel to
St. Michael
, bounding down the three wooden steps leading to the transom. Nick set his beer on a small table and picked up Max. “Where you been, hot dog? Sean kept you away from your marina family for too long.” Max licked Nick’s chin. He held her to his wide chest, picked up his bottle of Corona and danced in a circle to the music, Max almost smiling.

“Nick, do you have a fillet knife?”

“Do the fishes swim in the deep blue sea? Of course I have a fillet knife, I have three of ‘em. I used one a half hour ago to fillet some grouper and reds I caught. I put some on the coals for you and hot dog.” Nick set Max down, sipped from the bottle and opened the grill to turn over a large piece of fish. He sang something in Greek, closing one eye to avoid the smoke. Years of working as a fisherman gave him a body thick with muscle. His bushy dark hair was a mop of wavy locks, skin the shade of light tea. A full moustache covered his upper lip. His eyes were bright, playful, matching his steady grin. He was loyal, fearless, and after I pulled two bikers off him a few years ago, he said we were brothers for life.

I stepped down onto the cockpit, Nick reaching under the grill for a fillet knife. He handed it to me and I sliced the bottom portion of the envelope. He said, “I just rip open my mail. You do it the fancy way.”

I handed the knife back to Nick, unfolded the letter inside and read. It was written in hand. Probably from an expensive fountain pen.

Dear Mr. O’Brien
,

By the time you get this letter I will be dead. I’m told the cancer will take me in six months, but I refuse to burden my family with that
.

One of the true highlights of my life was the day I chartered your boat for a fishing trip. It had been a very long time since I felt that good about life and my place in this life. I remembered you telling me that you had been a Miami homicide detective. Something in my gut tells me you were good at it, too. I can understand how the death of your wife could make you seek a career change
.

I was forever changed many years ago by the horrible abuse inflicted upon me and other children at the Florida School for Boys in Marianna, Florida. Grown men beat us so brutally our underwear was imbedded in our buttocks. In 1965, a boy named Andy Cope was murdered. He tried to run away one rainy night and they just shot him in the back. The men threatened me, men who were evil and filled with hate. And I kept silent. I now know that, for years, I suffered from post-traumatic-stress-disorder. I’m not making excuses. I’ve lived with that guilt all my life
.

The local police say it’s a cold case with no evidence or a body. And now, on the eve of my death, I want to try to right a horrible wrong. I believe at least one of the men who did this is still alive. In this envelope, you’ll find the key to a post office box. On a separate paper, I’ve included the location and box number
.

I’m hoping you might take a look at this case because Andy wasn’t the only one to die. It was like a death camp for boys. They buried Andy one rainy night down there. I sent a photocopy of this letter to Andy’s only sister. There may be a statute of limitations for rape and abuse – but not for murder. Should you decide to take this case, I’ve enclosed compensation in the package at the postal box as well as something tied to the murder, only if the right investigator could find the other parts. You can simply tear this letter up and walk away, but in my heart, I don’t think you will
.

- Curtis Garwood
.

I reached in the envelope and lifted out a single brass key and a note:
P.O. Box 129, Daytona Beach
. I held the key in the palm of my hand for a few seconds, thinking about what
I’d just read. Nick sipped his beer and asked, “Sean, what the hell’s in that letter. Looks like you saw a ghost.”

“Do you remember a charter customer we had a few months ago—his name was Curtis Garwood?”

“Since you, or we, only had a few, I remember them all. Wasn’t Curtis Garwood the tall guy who wore the Florida Seminoles cap?”

“Yes.”

“Nice fella. What about him?”

“He’s apparently dead.”

“Dead? Damn, man. I’m sorry to hear that.” Nick made the sign of the cross. “How’d it happen?”

“I’ve read a few suicide notes…but I’ve never read one addressed to me.”

“Oh shit.”

“And this key is to a post office box that might have something in it that will shed some light on a murder of a child.”

“Murder…a kid?”

“And it may have happened more than fifty years ago.”

TWO

J
esse Taylor sipped his morning coffee at his kitchen table, checking to see who’d died. Since turning sixty-five, he read the obituary listings in the Jacksonville Times Union before he read the sports section. At least once a month, he’d found an obit—a death notice—about someone he’d known. Mostly it’d been men. Fellas who had shared the same hardscrabble lifestyle Jesse lived all his life—lived still. Paycheck-to-paycheck. Hand-to-mouth too often. Hard to hold a steady job when you held steady anger. Cheap wine and weed would take the edge off, but Jesse hated the hangovers, hated himself for relapsing.