Cemetery Road (Sean O'Brien Book 7) (32 page)

It was close to one o’clock in the morning when I finally got to bed. I lay there in my motel room, the worn mattress lumpy, thinking about the past twenty-four hours. I played back
conversations, events—looking for patterns, links, looking for vine-covered and rusty closed doors. Places with twin routes to the past and present. Tomorrow I’d receive the package from FBI agent Carly Brown. I’d get the GPS tracker from Dave. I hoped the shotgun shell and the print would open a crucial door into the past. And I wanted to see if the tracker would lead me to someone currently trying to keep that door shut and locked.

Sometime tomorrow I’d visit Cypress Grove, an assisted living facility. Maybe I could talk with one of the people that reporter Cory Wilson said was a resident there, Julie Carson, the mother of the state attorney, Jeff Carson. I didn’t know if she had dementia or some other mental condition. But I did know what I wanted to ask her. And her response just might get me a little closer to finding Andy Cope.

SIXTY-ONE

J
esse Taylor scooped up a final spoonful of grits and scrambled eggs from his plate. He sat at the kitchen table in Caroline’s home, the smell of bacon and coffee in the air. He sipped black coffee from a small white cup, Jesse’s index finger almost too large for the handle. He set the cup back on the saucer and said, “Can’t remember the last time I had a breakfast this good. Thank you, Caroline.”

She smiled, the light from the morning sun coming through the tall glass windows in the Florida room, yucca and ficus plants growing from earthen pots in each corner. “I’m just so happy you’re eating. I know it’s not easy with loose teeth and cracked ribs. How’s the burn on your arm?”

Jesse glanced at the wound. He wore a fresh white T-shirt and jeans. “It’s painful, but I’ll live. I’m hoping that when it heals there won’t be much of a scar.”

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Took the antibiotic. I’m tryin’ to hold off on the painkillers. When I cough, though, my ribs feel like somebody’s pullin’ them apart with a crowbar. But I don’t do well with narcotics; they make me tired and nauseous.”

“Do only what you feel you need to do. I’m hoping you’ll have a speedy recovery and they’ll catch the men who did this to you.”

“All I want is a speedy recovery of Andy—at least finding his whereabouts. The word speedy sounds damn weird after all these years. I need to get my car outta that motel lot before they tow it. Can you run me over there?”

She got up and stepped in the kitchen. “Can you drive?”

“No problem with that.” His phone buzzed. Jesse looked at the screen. He recognized the number. It was Jeremiah Franklin. “Hey, Caroline, do you have the newspaper?”

“It’s on the front porch. I’ll get it for you”

“Thanks.” He answered his phone and whispered, “Hey, Jeremiah, where are you?”

“Heard what happened to you. Sonia works up there at the hospital. She saw a report on what they done to you, Jesse. Are you hurt bad?”

“I’m all right. The important thing is we got the bastards scared. They’re scattering here and there like cockroaches in a kitchen drawer.”

“Can you walk?”

“Damn sure I can walk.”

“Meet me at the old place we fished as kids.”

“You mean Bellamy Bridge on the river?”

“Yeah, that old fishin’ hole brings back warm memories for me. You too, I suppose. Meet me there at noon. When I see you I’m gonna tell you what you want to know. I’m gonna tell you who it was that killed Andy Cope.

Both Fed-EX packages were waiting for me at the motel office. I signed for them, bought a large black coffee at a convenience store, and drove to the Heartland Motel, hoping Jesse’s car was still there. It was. I parked next to it and opened the small package Dave had sent. There were two state-of-the-art GPS trackers. Last night, after packing Jesse’s stuff into Caroline’s car, I made sure one of the doors to Jesse’s car was unlocked.

I put a battery inside one tracker, got out of my Jeep, opened the front passenger door to Jesse’s car and slipped the tracker under the seat. At the hospital, Caroline had said Jesse wanted to be a knight—maybe he wanted to be her white knight, but he had the rust of Tin Man and no elixir, no can of oil in sight. I couldn’t keep him on a leash, but I could keep tabs on him. And if he ventured too far from Marianna, too deep into the abyss, I could bring him back. Or I’d at least know where to look.

I got back in the Jeep and opened the package from Special Agent, Carly Brown. She had enclosed a handwritten note. I silently read it.
Sean, here’s your fifty-year-old print and the shell. Let me know if there’s a police agency you want me to send a digital copy to. Enclosed, you have an enlarged copy to use. If you find a match, you might be studied at Quantico in the future. And you might want to play the lotto, too. Good luck with everything. Carly
.

I started calling Deputy Ivan Parker when my phoned vibrated. It was reporter Cory Wilson. He was next on my to-call list, and now he was saving me time. I answered. “Mr. O’Brien, I have some bad news.”

“I never like conversations to begin like that.” I looked at the shotgun shell in the box, closed the cardboard flaps and asked Cory Wilson to deliver the news.

SIXTY-TWO

T
here was a long pause on the phone. I could hear Cory Wilson take a deep breath. I could hear the motors groan as a garbage truck lifted a faded green dumpster in the far corner of the Heartland Motel parking lot. Cory said, “I know, sorry. I just wanted to let you know that someone stole my notes. Although I’m relatively new in this career, I take notes—as you saw, the old fashion way, by hand. A lot of the guys use tablets, recorders, whatever. But I find when I physically write down something, I better remember it. I write down the key parts of the interview when I’m questioning people. For me, it sticks. I keep my notes locked in my desk drawer. When I came to work they were gone.”

“Was the lock broken?”

“No. And I’m sure I locked the drawer before I left.”

“Maybe whoever did it has a key. Wouldn’t be too hard to find one in your office.”

“No, it wouldn’t. But what’s really bothering me is
why
would anyone bother? Also, a lot of what I had in there is what we discussed and much more. I’m thorough. I’ve done research, made extensive notes about Vista Properties, James Winston, state attorney Carson, some of the principals with Horizon and even senior management within the department of law enforcement.
I’ve been tracing as much of their personal and professional connections as I could find. I also had notes about you.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“Your background, much as I could locate. It looks like you had quite a confession and conviction rate with suspects when you worked Miami-Dade homicide. But your military service record is a blank slate. The stuff about you taking down the plane with one shot and how that level of covert savvy could lead to the unearthing of Jackson County’s most heinous secret—the possibility of a hidden cemetery filled with the bodies of boys. That’s a story. I wasn’t going to press, of course, until I had more, otherwise its mostly supposition, at least the parts about the cemetery.”

“Who do you think might want to steal your notes?”

“Wally Holland, maybe.”

“You think it’s professional jealousy or could it have an ulterior motive?”

“The latter. I think he has an allegiance to some powerful people. Maybe he’s on their payroll. I don’t know. But I do know that if he’s some kind of an informant, your cards have just been exposed. And I feel bad about it. That’s why I’m calling you. Watch your back. If Wally’s in cahoots with people like Detective Lee, James Winston, or Jeff Carson, you may be arrested for jaywalking. Marianna is a surreal kind of Mayberry. Rumors move at Internet speeds. Just be careful.”

“Did you visit Cypress Grove?”

“No, not yet. Why?”

“Did you reference that place in your notes?”

“Only once. And I remember I wrote a note to myself to check at CG, but I didn’t spell it out and I didn’t list a name of a potential interviewee. So I seriously doubt if anyone could decipher those initials.”

“Do me a favor, okay?”

“Sure. After compromising your investigation, that’s the least I can do.”

“Don’t visit Cypress Grove just yet. Give it a couple of days.”

“All right. Can I ask why?”

“Sure. But I can’t answer you. All in good time, though. I have to go.”

“Oh, one other thing. There’s going to be a news conference Friday morning. The department of law enforcement is calling it in reference to the reform school acquisition. It’s expected that the big announcement will be the sale of the property and exactly what it is that Vista plans to build there. I was hoping to have my story in the can before the announcement.”

“That gives us four days. In the meantime, especially since your notes were compromised, write a story about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can write that I’m in town to unearth the truth about the history of the Florida School for Boys and the possibility of multiple hidden graves. You can quote me by writing that justice for Andy Cope and others is long overdue. That will do two things. First, it’ll open a Pandora’s box of news media questions as Vista Properties and Horizon make their acquisition
announcement. They won’t be happy about that. Second, it’ll draw out those who’ve seen your investigative notes and give them a target—me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It takes the dangerous heat off you as a journalist and gives them a real threat—and that’s me.”

“But you’re putting yourself at risk.”

I smiled. “Sometimes you just have to enter the cave and poke the dragon. Often, what you seek is just on the other side of the dragon. Gotta go.” I disconnected and called Deputy Ivan Parker. When he answered I said, “I have the print I told you about. The spent shell casing, too. Where can I meet you?”

“I’m leaving the office now, en route to the courthouse. Meet you on the square, south entrance to the courthouse. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes. See you then.”

“Oh, O’Brien, don’t know if you heard, but yesterday there was a lot of movement on the reform school property. There were a few white, unmarked vans and a moving van. A half dozen black luxury SUV’s, too. No one asked for any assistance from the sheriff’s office. But somebody was up there doing something. I just hope they weren’t moving bodies.” He disconnected.

SIXTY-THREE

C
aroline Harper pulled her car into the lot next to Jesse’s car and said, “Here we are. You sure you’re going to be okay to drive?”

Jesse unbuckled his seatbelt and looked over at her. “Absolutely. You worry too much. You don’t need any more damn worrying. You served your quota of fret time.” He tried to smile.

“I’ll follow you back home.”

“You go on without me. I need to check in at the front desk, settle up, and get a receipt. I’ll be back ‘fore long.”

She sighed, watching a Hispanic maid push a cleaning cart down the walkway in front of the rooms, one of the wheels on the cart squeaking. Jesse got out of Caroline’s car. “No more fretting, okay.” He nodded and walked toward the front office. Inside the office he waited until Caroline had left, then he poured black coffee into a paper cup at the coffee stand. The clerk was on the phone confirming a reservation, a Fox News commentator talking loudly from a TV mounted to the wall.

Jesse exited, walking as fast as he could to his car. He could feel the throbbing in his fractured ribs, the pulse of pain in the wound over his eye, and the fiery sting from the burn on his arm. He got into the car, turned the ignition, and started for a place he knew well…a spot on
the river where he’d fished and swam with other boys. One of them was Jeremiah Franklin, and even after fifty years, Jesse remembered catching fat bluegill in the clear waters of the Chipola River below the dark shadow of the Bellamy Bridge.

I parked my Jeep in the shade of a live oak on the south side of the courthouse square and shut off the engine, the motor ticking as it cooled. Deputy Parker wasn’t here yet. I called Dave. “Thanks for the trackers. I placed one in Jesse Taylor’s car. He’s on a dangerous mission. Keeping tabs on him could do two things: possibly save his life and, hopefully, lead me into the lion’s den.”